


Youngling's Run

by Nikkie2010



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Assassins & Hitmen, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Prowl/Jazz - Freeform, No smutty scenes - yet, Violence, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-17 21:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkie2010/pseuds/Nikkie2010
Summary: Life has dealt Smokescreen a pretty raw deal. He never meant to be bad, but he landed up in a youngling detention centre, and has now been wrongly accused of murder.Friendless and alone, Smokescreen has no option but to run - not just from the enforcers, but from ruthless mechs with a vested interest in his death. If the youngling is to survive, he needs to find an ally - fast. Someone, anyone, who will listen.





	1. Chapter 1

The muffled _whump_ of a distant mortar marked the beginning of the main event. Millions of optics tracked the skyrocket as it corkscrewed high into the air and disappeared in the blackness of night. Suddenly, the dark erupted into a myriad of glittering red and gold colours. Mere clicks later more colours burst and the night became a beautiful painting of living and glittering colours. The crowds lined to watch the festival screamed and shouted their approval.

The corner of Prowl’s lips twitched up in the glare of the display. This marked the seventieth vorn that he had done the same thing on the same orn. Traditions were important to a healthy community – to a healthy team. His optics swept the crowd, and he spotted numerous of his colleagues with their families. Nodding to himself, he felt true contentment.

“So, you enjoying this? Ain’t often I see you smile.”

He turned his helm to the side, watching the silver Polyhexian as he crunched on Praxian candies he had bought at one of the stalls. Absentmindedly he concluded the extra amount of energy his partner, a mech designated Jazz, would have and what that could possibly mean throughout the evening. The results might be interesting.

“I am enjoying it. And you?”

“Absolutely.” Jazz perched himself on the railing Prowl leaned against. “The crowds really are lively. You mentioned the Festival of Primes was something to see, but mech, I hadn’t thought it be jamming like this.”

Barricade only groaned as he walked up to Prowl’s other side, leaning in close but not touching. He hated the heat, the pushy mechs and the loud noises, but every vorn, the enforcer stood beside Prowl in solidarity. Next to him a young, rookie enforcer was practically bouncing on his pedes.

Prowl pitied him. He, along with Barricade, always volunteered for duty during the Festival of Primes to allow the other enforcers much needed bonding-time with their families. This vorn, Barricade had been assigned a new rookie – a young mech by the name of Sideburn. The rookie was obviously burning to be a part of the festivities, but had to submit under the strong arm of duty.

“I think Dash would’ve enjoyed the feast.” Sideburn announced out of nowhere, smiling brightly at Prowl.

Barricade squeezed Prowl’s shoulder as he shot a warning glare at Jazz, “I think so, too.” He patted Prowl’s shoulder and turned back to watch the fireworks.

Prowl ignored Jazz’s quizzical field, instead he focused on the schedule of events. The orn had started early with the re-enactment of the Triumph of Prime at the town hall, followed by a huge parade headed by floats created by the various youngling centres around town, followed by the more professional works of artists commissioned for the festival. After that, a good old display of the towns emergency units – the fire department, headed by Chief Inferno, was a favourite of the youngling. They lived for the water-target competition. Of course, each team’s aim was a little wild at first, drenching gleeful sparklings and younglings, and their creators, with hundreds of tons of high-pressure solvent. The fireworks display preceded the carnival, which was the last of the orn’s events and to most the highlight of the feast. It ran concurrently with the ‘Energon-Mine’ event, which saw hundreds of families cooking in the streets where friends, families and often strangers would mingle and laugh.

It was a happy picture – but also one that had Prowl scanning the crowds to ensure it remained a happy picture.

Only a dozen or so rockets into the firework display, Prowl’s internal comm pinged. Checking the caller ID, he stifled a groan as it bore his work line followed by ‘1-1-2’, the official Praxian emergency line. Which meant it was an emergency. He flicked his large, pristine white doorwing and pushed off the railing.

 His three companions stared at him.

“What’s up?” Jazz asked as he popped the last of the candies into his stuffed mouth.

Prowl shook his helm. “I do not know as yet, but for Moonracer to comm me during the festival does not bode well.” He walked a few steps away, turning his back to the rockets as he commed Moonracer.

She answered almost immediately. “Crystal County Enforcers, what is your emergency?”

“Moonracer, you sent an urgent comm?”

“Oh, Lieutenant!” the femme gasped, ‘there has been a murder down at the Youngling Detention Centre on East. Sergeant Hackner said to get you down there immediately!”

Prowl vented deeply. This was exactly what he dreaded on orns like this – something to shatter the happy picture. And at a Youngling Detention Centre no less. “Very well.” He took a moment to calculate his time of arrival at said youngling centre and stifled an unprofessional groan. It would be at least a joor. “Inform the officer at the scene I will be there in one joor. I request an update the click I arrive.”

“Yes, sir. I will relay the information.” Moonracer said before cutting the connection.

Prowl turned towards his companions. Jazz had trotted up to him, the Polyhexian’s visor glowing. “Spill.”

“We are needed on East.” He burst Jazz a datapackage through and turned to Barricade, his expression stern.

The mech simply cocked an optic ridge at him, drawing a dramatic vent as he turned to his rookie partner. “We got this.”

Prowl nodded and turned to Jazz. “Come with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been vorns since Prowl last entered the Youngling Detention Centre. It truly was a depressing place and to some extent Prowl viewed it as a failure on their part. The younglings in these centres were here because someone had been negligent towards them. Shoving that thought to the back of his processor, he turned his attention to the YDC.

From the outside, the YDC bore the architectural signature of the golden era. No doubt the original intent of the building had been as a school – and to a degree one could say it tried to fulfill that purpose as a reform school. Howbeit not very successfully.

“Pretty place.” Jazz said as he walked next to Prowl, eying the large crystal structures that adorned manicured gardens. No one sparing it a passing glance would think this was a warehouse for violent younglings.

“From the outside, yes.”

As they entered the building, a low whistle sounded from Jazz. “Yeah I get what you said earlier. This place could use some freshening up.”

Prowl nodded as he ignored the once pristine walls now showing tell-tale signs of age and abuse. The faint smell of rot tinged their olfactories, and Prowl made a mental note to mention it to the warden. He glanced down, relieved to find the overlaid floor clean, no doubt polished and buffed by some of the more trustworthy residents, but in the corners where the yellow-tinged walls met the floors years’ worth of dirt had accumulated. Prowl made a note of it as well.

As they passed through the lobby, two enforcers joined them and led them through the inner security door and down a short hallway, where Prowl encountered a knot of glyphed mechs and femmes. The focus of their attention was a small doorway bearing the label ‘Crisis Unit’.

He couldn’t see inside of the room itself, but the flash of lights and activity surrounding the room betrayed this as the scene of the crime.

“Excuse me,” Prowl said, gently tapping the shoulder of an enforcer from behind.

The initial annoyance of the enforcer’s optics instantly disappeared as he recognized the mech making the request. He jumped out of the way. “Lieutenant Prowl coming through!” He announced, causing the small crowd to look over their shoulders and part.

Prowl nodded at the officer, noting the glyphs of his rank and his designation. “Thank you, officer Groove.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Groove nodded back. Prowl was the only detective who treated patrolmecha like real enforcers.

Prowl stopped short, doorwings hiking high as he took in the gruesome scene. Jazz stopped beside him, crossing his arms.

A slate grey mech, maybe in his prime, and decorated with the glyphs of a YDC guard, lay sprawled on the floor of the tiny room, surrounded by a pool of coagulating energon. An upended berth had been tossed into the corner. Every surface had been splashed with gore extending high onto the walls. A youngling-sized energon-pedeprint pointed of the door. Prowl’s processor worked to re-create the enormous struggle that had gone on in the small room.

“Pretty disgusting scene, huh.” Jazz noted, indicating the walls.

“Indeed.” Prowl turned towards one of the enforcers that had guided them here. “What happened?”

The younger enforcer pulled a datapad from subspace. “From what we’ve put together so far, sir, this is Scuttle, a YMC guard. He’s been employed here for the past twenty-three vorns as a youngling-care supervisor.”

“That the same as a guard?” Jazz asked, his visor darkened as he examined the scene. Prowl watched him for a click, then turned back to the enforcer. Jazz was a fine detective, as he had proven over the past three vorns he had been stationed in Praxus.

“Yes, sir.” The enforcer continued from his notes: “At twenty-eight hundred, Supervisor Scuttle had some kind of an altercation with on of the residents, a youngling designated ‘Smokescreen’, and assigned the youngster here to the Crisis Unit.”

“And ‘Crisis Unit’ is the same as solitary confinement?” Jazz interrupted again from a crouched position next to the frame.

“Very similar, sir. From that point on, all we have is speculation. But the bottom line is that we believe Smokescreen killed Supervisor Scuttle and then escaped. Smokescreen is on the loose as we speak.”

“Thank you, Enforcer Rollout.” Prowl nodded and went to crouch next to Jazz, keen optics taking in every detail. “Care to speculate on a motive?” He glanced at Jazz.

Jazz shrugged, grimacing as he did so. “My guess is he wanted to get out of this place. Wouldn’t you?”

Prowl scowled. “I do not know that I would kill for it. I see we have the murder weapon.” He pointed at the end of a vibro-blade protruding out of the victim’s chassis, directly over his spark.

Jazz pointed at the security camera in the upper left rear corner of the room. “Have you checked the recordings?” Jazz asked one of the enforcers. “Maybe we have a horror movie of the whole thing.” He murmured, even though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Yes, sir, I check and unfortunately we don’t. The systems are down.” Rollout shrugged.

“Of course it is.” Prowl muttered, “Where did the blade come from?”

“Good question. Ain’t supposed to have those in here.”

“What is the time of death?” Prowl glanced again at the energon splattered against the walls.

“Can’t tell for sure, sir, but it is estimated about three joors.”

Prowl’s optics bore into Rollout, their blue depths shimmered as he coldly replied, “Three _joors_? How long exactly did they sit on the frame before they called us?”

Rollout swallowed, his doorwings dipping low as he glanced around at his colleagues, but every mech was single-tracked on their own duties. “Well, sir, apparently they only work one mech at night. Scuttle was found by his relief when he came in at thirty-one hundred. It is currently thirty-two hundred forty, sir.”

Jazz shook his helm in disbelief. “So that means the youngster has a two to three joor head start on us, right?”

“Not really, sir. We have enforcers out looking for him for about thirty breems already.” Rollout shuffled nervously at the door.

Prowl glared again.

“We’ve also got roadblocks at strategic points, mechs canvassing the area, and we’re setting up drones. The whole drill, sir.”

“That’s good, mech.” Jazz turned to Prowl, his half-smile, half-grimace tugging at his full mouth. He knew that for a mech with a criminal record and experience it was a worthy headstart.

Prowl vented deeply. “Well, if we can not track down a youngling, I guess we have a problem.” A sudden thought occurred to him and he turned towards Rollout. “How old is he anyway?”

 

* * *

 

 

Barely out of his second upgrades, Smokescreen tried to press his thin frame below the surface of the damp crystals and wedge in closer to the cool wall. Despite the oppressive heat of the night, he couldn’t stop his lanky frame shaking. He pulled his doorwings closer to his frame.

His efforts to blend in with the surroundings only made him more aware of how much he stood out. While everyone had donned festive capes and trinkets, their paint nanites colourful to match the mood, his nanites were tainted the despicable orange of the YDC. What was worse was the number tattooed on his chassis.

Smokescreen had no idea where he was. Once he was free from the belly of the YDC building, he had sprinted as fast as his pedes would allow. At first he felt nothing except the pounding of his spark, but once the fireworks started with all the explosions and lights, he had only felt the guttural fear that something was after him.

Sharp explosions popped to his right.

Someone’s shooting at him! Smokescreen jerked violently at the sound. His instinct was to bolt out of his hiding place, but fear held him pinned to the ground. A whimper escaped him and he pressed his fist against his mouth. He pushed back against the wall, pressing into the softer turf as he peered from underneath his hiding place.

There was no gunmen.

Just a bunch of younglings laughing and playing as they set off firecrackers in the street.

Smokescreen’s processor recalled a memory – him and his sire lighting off their own fireworks out in the front of their own home. A thousand thoughts and memories flooded his processor as fluid flooded his optics. Life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right how his sire went off to the Well and left him in the Pit, alone with Uncle Brawl; how mecha treated you like scraplets when there wasn’t an adult around to help you; how everything you said was a lie just because you were a youngling; how sometimes you had to kill –

For the first time, the enormity of what he had done crashed down on him. He’d been in trouble before, but never like this. He had to get away. He had to run…far far away from here…but where? He had no place to go.

He started trembling again, his doorwings pulling even closer to shield himself. His vents raced, noisy as they sawed through his tight chassis. He drew a giant vent, releasing it slowly.

 _Calm down,_ he commanded himself. He tried another vent, this one better. The third time did the trick. _Don’t panic. Just think._ He knew that if he panicked, he’d do something stupid. His only chance of survival depended on him being smart.

Smokescreen needed plan. More than that, he needed recharge and a cube of energon. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired. He also needed something to get rid of the nanites – he stood out too much and no doubt they would come looking for him. He glanced out again from underneath his scanty shelter. Every house within his sight could offer him exactly what he needed, yet he was locked out of those houses just as tightly as he was locked out of every kindness and every bit of normality he had ever known.

 _Wait!_ An idea began to take shape as he stared at some of the darker rooms. Just because doors and windows were locked, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be entered.

Swallowing the fear that clawed and guttered him, he elbow-crawled along the narrow tunnel between the crystal hedge and the side of the house to get a better view of the street. He flared his doorwings as wide as he dared, trying to glean as much information as he could, but being a second-upgrade frame meant that the sensors weren’t as adapt at interpreting data. He pushed himself onto his elbows and surveyed the street.

It was a nice neighbourhood, not unlike his own. Well-kept houses, all brightly lit, with well-kept gardens. The neighbourhood was crawling with mechs – some walking down the streets, others chatting in their yards or at their doors. Smokescreen guessed they were filled with mecha coming home from the fireworks.

His attention was focused on one house, though. It stood out from the rest, being directly across from his hiding place, it was neither well lit nor well kept. The crystals weren’t manicured, and a few orns worth of mail lay piled up on the front porch.

 _Vacation._ Smokescreen bit his lip as his large, youngling optics glanced around the street. Vacation meant the house was empty, and that he could safely stay there, at least for the night.

He’d have to cross in the open, though, and if he tried that now, they’d catch him for sure. _Patience, Smokey, patience._ Tears burned his optics again as he heard his sire say those words to him, his voice filled with laughter. Swallowing the painful memory, he settled back to begin his wait, forcing his rattled processor to think about anything but sleep.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The glittering lights of the fireworks had long since dispersed along with the jubilent crowds, and in their stead the quiet darkness of night had fallen, disturbed only by a steady, cool breeze that blew in from across the rust sea. Those who were sensitive to the ways of the wind knew a storm was brewing somewhere, and would no doubt make landfall within the night. Those who knew also had the wisdom to seek shelter in their own homes or hotels.

But not all mecha were sparked with wisdom, and others simply had a job to do.

It was thirty-four joors now, and outside the Youngling Detention Centre the media clamoured for information, driven by their need to scoop a developing story before any one else. The highly competitive, unruly knot of reporters had already blocked the front entrance of the YDC, and more were arriving by the breem, camping out their equipment in the little spaces still available. The Cybertronian Visual Networking, or CVN journalists were particularly aggressive, shouting questions at anyone looking remotely linked to the enforcers corp in a bid to get as much information for the thirty-five joor news report as they could muster. Their star reporter – Rook, stood poised outside the YDC, glaring daggers at the barricaded doors.

“Mech, those are some serious scavengers outside.” Jazz shook his finned helm as he glanced at the reporters through the grimy window of the YDC superintendent’s office. The superintendent had cordially invited the enforcers to use his office as a base of operations, and Prowl had readily accepted. One look at the superintendent and Prowl had also charged one of the enforcers, Groove, to take him to the staff recreation room and talk with him there.

“They will do what they need to to fulfil their duty.” Prowl commented without inflection as he glowered at the briefing notes. “The youngling has a criminal record for being a stow-away, for shoplifting, gambling, and,” he arched an optic ridge, “he also has a record for stealing shuttles.”

“Shuttles?” Jazz whipped his helm back to Prowl. “He’s a bit young for that, ain’t he?” He waltzed over to Prowl, taking his seat on the other side of the desk. Even though most Cybertronians had the ability to transform, not all mecha could. Younglings for one were unable to transform until their third upgrade, and because of this most Cybertronian families, especially those located in more remote areas, owned or had access to a shuttle.

“Apparently not.” Prowl handed the notes to Jazz. His field betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but Jazz was used to this. It meant Prowl was in ‘seriously focused mode’.

“Well, nothing like murder to up the ante. Just wish we can catch this kid before he harms anyone else.” Jazz skimmed the notes, a wistful note to his tone. He heaved a heavy sigh as he read through the minor’s record. He hated these kind of cases.

“Does our victim have family in the area?” Prowl asked as he turned towards the holographic display showcasing their search area. His optics were sharp as he scanned the area, noting the many areas a youngling could hide. So far their search had turned up nothing. Honestly, how hard was it to track down a youngling? Hopefully the cassettes will have more success than the mechs. It would be a small comfort to the family if they had apprehended the killer. “Have they been notified?”

“Nope and nope. He’s from Tarn, and can’t find any links just yet.” Jazz shook his helm and leaned back on his chair, balancing it precariously on the edges. The datapad holding the case notes laid dormant on his lap.

Prowl watched him, debated scolding the mech, and then thought better of it. Jazz’s balance was superb, but it did look highly unprofessional. Not that Jazz was completely unprofessional. He was just his own special brand of…relaxed…professional. Prowl cut that train of thoughts off. It was inappropriate. Drawing a vent, he let it go as he turned to another problem. “Currently, the youngling has a head start of approximately five joors.” He checked his internal comms and the updates popping up on his console. Doorwings hiking into a high ‘V’, he turned his frowning optics to Jazz. “There is no mention in the status updates of the cassettes. What are their status?”

The chair fell back with a loud ‘clank’ as Jazz sat up straight, placing the datapad on the desk. He cleared his vocaliser and scratched his audial fin. “Well, seems there’s a problem with the cassettes. It’ll be another couple of joors before Soundwave can get here. Took the cassettes to see the show in the Crystal Gardens. He’s stuck tight in traffic. You know – drives his own shuttle.”

The cables in Prowl’s jaws flexed visibly and his doorwings flared – a sure sign of his displeasure. “When were you planning on informing me of this development, Sg. Jazz?”

“Sorry mech, I wasn’t hiding it from you, it just didn’t make it into the briefing yet.”

Prowl drew a deep vent and released it slowly. It was unnecessary to feel anger towards Jazz as he was not at fault. The investigation was a team effort. His team was not responsible for the festival, nor the traffic problems it created. Relaxing his doorwings, he walked over to the window. He stared at the lightened front entrance of the YDC, watching as the reporters jostled each other. Their cameras were ready – now they only awaited the star of the show. An acrid taste filled his mouth. Since that orn he had to deliver a media report of Dash – he had grown to loathe the media. “I despise talking to those scavengers. And as of yet we do not have any information on the whereabouts of Smokescreen. We have the best trackers in Praxus, but just as we need them they are on vacation in the Capital.” He pressed two fingers against the bridge of his olfactory. “The trail will only be fresh for five joors, and if we are to trust in the weathermech’s prediction, we will have rain in the next few joors, which inevitably leads to a dead trail.”

The scrape of chair pede’s across the floor had Prowl’s doorwings flick unintentionally. He didn’t turn as Jazz came to a stand next to him, looking at the media. “We’ll find him, Prowler. With or without the cassettes.” His hand briefly flitted over tense doorwings before they were safely tucked into his side. “But for now, you got the honours of feeding the buzzards.”

 

* * *

 

On the outskirts of Praxus, in a small village nestled close to its northern borders of Nova Cronum and Protihex, Natron sat brooding on his torn, faded sofa, nursing the last few pints of his expensive Vosian highgrade. The only light in his small, run-down apartment emanated from the out-dated entertainment centre. Illogically, it seemed important that he remain in the dark, out of sight. He didn’t want to be seen, not this evening, not ever. He just wanted this filthy business with Smokescreen to be over and done with so he could get on with the rest of his life.

Until two joors ago, the decanter of highgrade had served as his monument to conquering his addiction to stimulants and highgrade. He had bought it three vorns ago as an anniversary gift to himself for having been sober for an entire vorn – and he was proud to say he hadn’t touched it or any other highgrade since. Until this dank evening he could never bring himself to open the decanter. It would have meant admitting failure, and Natron was no mecha’s failure. No way. Not him.

He took another swig, the lull of overcharge fizzling happily through his frame, infusing him with artificial warmth. That was good. Let the deceitful warmth drown out all other feelings.

He had done terrible things in his life to stay ahead of the pack, but tonight – oh tonight he had done something that would condemn his very spark to the deepest part of the Pit. For three decaorns now he had known that after this night, the darkness would forever feast on his spark. All self-respect would forever be buried in the tar pits of Polyhex.

He drew a deep vent, hazy optics focusing on the fuzzy Telly screen. Events of the night notwithstanding, Natron had felt well under control – that is until the face of Rook, the CVN’s hotshot reporter appeared on television for the teaser to the thirty-five joor news. _‘Murder at the Youngling Detention Centre. Details at thirty-five hundred.’_ Those ten words, delivered in just under five clicks, drove blades of shame into Natron’s spark, but it also confirmed to him that it was all over. He had won. He had been granted a new lease on life, albeit at the expense of his immortal spark.

It had been that thought that had driven him to search out the sacred relic of his sobriety – the precious decanter of Vosian highgrade. His first toast had been to his poorly departed brother, Freezon. Good ol’ Freeee-zo. Mr Perfect life, perfect frame, perfecter-than-anymech Freezon. Natron shook his helm, olfactory pulled up in a growl. _Bastard._ “Yeah, bro, and look where yerr sittin’ now. Huh. Not doing so great anymore, huh?” His optics faded out as he took another swig. “Sorry it had to end this way….You didn’t leave me with much to work with.”

His processor spun as he stared unseeingly at the blaring Telly and the late-night trash they had running. Natron’s top priority had always been to survive – no matter the cost. Even as a youngling, mechs and peers alike had pronounced him street-savvy. He’d dealt with every bit of adversity life had thrown him. Triumphing over each. In the end, wasn’t that what life was all about? You get knocked down, and then you get back up. When Social Services had dumped Freezon’s little hatchling on his doorstep he’d turned it into an opportunity.

He drew a deep vent as he checked his chronometer. _Almost time._ His helm thunked back onto the stringy sofa. The longer he lived, the better he got at beating the odds. He was a gambler – he was good at it. Mostly.  The problem was just that the price kept getting harder and harder to pay.

Now that this Smokey business was done, though, and his energon was warmed and fizzled from the highgrade, he was feeling damned philosophical about everything. Beside, _Nothing you can do about it now, my mech. No sense dwelling on the past._

His processor pinged him with a shut-down warning. He grinned sloppily at it. If his timing was right, he’d pass out just after the CVN’s _News at Thirty-five_ was over. By the time he woke, he’d be playing devastated uncle. He finished the last of the decanter just as the opening theme for the CVN blared over the Telly.

As always, that shiny-afted, insolent Rook was first with what he hoped to be the next big scoop. His smooth voice floated through the screen: ‘The quiet community of Crystal Springs has been stunned this evening by the brutal murder of a staff member at the Crystal County Youngling Detention Centre. Long-time youngling-supervisor Scuttle was found deactivated by a traumatized co-worker at roughly thirty-hundred joors. The suspected killer: a second-frame youngling who subsequently escaped from the facility and is currently at large. According to the enforcers, his whereabouts are unknown and they are urging the community to be on the lookout and not to approach the suspect if they see him. Lieutenant Prowl of the….”

Natron squinted at the screen, his first thought was that the highgrade had messed with his helm, mushing his thoughts and impairing his hearing. He rubbed a hand over his clammy face, swallowing the urge to purge He had to have heard wrong…no. No it was impossible…Smokescreen…a youngling against a fully matured mech…Trying to blink his helm clear, he slid onto the floor and scooted on all fours closer to the television, the empty decanter clutched like a lifeline. He flicked his doorwings forward and forced himself to focus on every word. He clearly made out the lighted façade of the Youngling Detention Centre, which served as the backdrop to that stupid Rook.

“…sources tell us that the victim was stabbed repeatedly while making his rounds in the facility. Supervisor Scuttle’s frame was found in a cell belonging to a second-frame youngling designated ‘Smokescreen’. The details of the case are sketchy, but what we do know for sure is that Smokescreen has escaped, though it’s safe to assume he is the primary suspect in the murder as well….”

Unbelievable! “You fragging little… _Bastard!_ ” Natron hissed through clenched denta. He heaved the empty monument and drove it through the screen with a resounding _crack!_ , instantly drenching the living room into stark, quiet darkness.

The silence was broken by Natron’s heavy vents. _How could this happen?_ Natron reeled, wishing distantly that he could drain the numbing highgrade from his tubes. It was so simple. Should have been so simple! How could Scuttle frag up so badly? And with a little snip of a mechling that didn’t even have the ball bearings to stand up to a beating.

He tried to stand, using the television’s stand to raise himself, but tumbled, along with the already broken screen to his side like a fallen mechanimal. He howled out in pain as his doorwing popped, and there he lay, cursing under his vents.

“Slag it, Smokey! You shoulda let him do it,” he moaned as he placed his hands over his optics, tears streaking over his cheeks. “Woulda been a lot easier on the both of us.”

His last cohesive thought before slipping off into a drunken stupor wat that street-savvy Natron might not be able to survive this one after all.

 

* * *

 

 

High beams washed over Smokescreen’s face, startling him awake. For a long moment, he was disoriented, unable to piece together the bright lights, the wetness, the smell of dirt, the sense of fear. The headlights blinded him as they came closer, only to pause in the driveway before him. The tell-tale sounds of transforming sequences pierced the quiet night even as a shuttle pulled up into the driveway. A youngling hopped out of the shuttle, laughing as he skipped towards his creator. The rumble of garage doors mingled with the sound of laughter as the shuttle pulled into its parking space.

A scant few metres from his right the youngling and his creator laughed, jostling each other as they talked nonstop. They moved towards the house, their sounds growing distant until they finally disappeared behind the rumble of doors closing.

Through it all Smokescreen lay deathly quiet, not daring to vent even as his spark pounded in his small chassis. He was sure they had to hear him, and he willed his spark to settle. For breems he lay there, pinned by fear, not daring to move just in case the mechs were watching their driveway. But as the breems slipped by, fear gradually released her grip and Smokescreen was able to vent easier. He swallowed and glanced around the street – it looked so different now. Most of the brightly lit houses were dark, the mechs peacefully recharging inside. He drew a deep vent and released it slowly. It was time to make his move. Using only his elbows for propulsion, and keeping his doorwings tucked closely to his frame, Smokescreen snaked from behind the bins and onto the golden grass. Free of the foliage tunnel, he now had an unobstructed view of the empty street. Crouched like a cybercat, he rapidly calculated what needed to be done. The space that separated him from the shadows of the house across the street looked like the same distance as the hundred-metre dash he used to run at his previous youngling centre. He’d covered the distance in a mere 7.9 clicks – the fastest in his class. His teachers had prophesied that he’d be a great racer one orn, and his sire had praised him for his speed and agility.

He drew deep vents, jaw clenched as he focused on the moment. _Just like then._ From his crouched position, he counted down in his helm. _On your marks….get set….GO!_

He covered the front yard in six quick strides, hit the street on his seventh step, and a well-camouflaged garden feature on his ninth. He stumbled face-first onto the grass across the street. He quickly picked himself up.

Suddenly, an explosion of light blasted from the house he had just left. The doors once again rumbled open until Smokescreen could see the entire frame of the mech who lived there.

Smokescreen panicked. He was completely out in the open – the orange nanites glaring and shrieking his identity. With no real alternative, he resumed his crouch and froze in place, not moving as much as a doorwing. _‘Sometime, Smokey, the best place to hide is in the open.’_ His sire had once told him that. _Just stay quiet. Don’t move._

The mech whistled as he rolled a trash can out to the kerb. He twirled around once, twice, never once glancing across the street as he did dance moves all the way back to his garage. Once the mech disappeared inside, and the doors started down again, Smokescreen dashed into the shadow cast by the house he hoped would be his home for the night. He halted there and pushed himself flat against the wall. _Slag that had been close!_ His spark raced, his frame trembled, and he felt like purging. He swallowed a few times, staring at the few starts that peeked out between the packing clouds. Finally he felt in control enough to creep around the house.

He chose as his point of entry the beautiful Crystalian doors at the back. Not only was it convenient because it was out of line of the street, but because Crystalian doors had panes of crystal that were easily broken. Using an elbow to break out a pane of crystal near the lock, he reached through the opening, feeling for the wires. Uncle Natron had done this once, and he had watched closely. With a small ‘bzzzt’ the lock disengaged and the door clicked open. It took Smokescreen about ten clicks to break into the house, thank-you Uncle Natron. Smokescreen pushed the door ajar and slipped into a darkened room, dominated by an extravagant bar on his right, and by a huge, state of the art entertainment centre on his left. Smokescreen gently closed the Crystalian doors again, and repaired the wires. He nodded as he heard the door lock engage.

Even though his optics were well accustomed to the darkness, he moved cautiously and used the light that spilled in from the streets to navigate the furniture. _This place is huge._ He glanced at the kitchen sprawled to his right – it was large and it had a peninsular breakfast nook. Beyond that stretched what looked like a formal dining room – and maybe another room? Smokescreen didn’t bother. His first destination was the kitchen, or more specifically, the fridge. Primus he was _starving._ He yanked the fridge door open, then froze. In the dim light of the refrigerator, he got his first good look at his hands. They were filthy – caked with black grime and energon. Scuttle’s energon.

His hunger vanished as his fuel tank lurched. He slammed the fridge door shut, backing away from the light as he stared as his hands. His vents heaved as he spun round, frantically searching for washracks. He spotted the elevator and ran towards it. He punched the button repeatedly until the doors opened and he stepped in. The lights in the elevator automatically turned on as the doors closed, revealing walls lined with mirrors. Smokescreen stared at the reflection. He raised a hand and touched it. Was that…him?

The youngling in the mirror frightened him. His optics were dark hollows, the smooth protoform bruised an angry shade of grey. No doubt he’d have a swollen optic soon, but maybe he could find some repair nanites. Sire always put it on….He traced the rest of his frail frame – he’d lost mass, and the garish orange colour nanites he wore only highlighted his sunken protoform. He withdrew his hand. He looked more like a first-frame youngling than a second-frame.

The elevator halted smoothly and the doors slid open. Smokescreen stumbled out of them, his optics taking a moment to adjust to the dark hallway. He walked to the door closest to him and peaked in. He vented in relief as he stepped into the washracks, the door sliding shut and plunging him into utter darkness. He fumbled along the wall until he found the light sensor. With no windows in the washracks he could safely turn on the lights. The lights sputtered on and he hurried to the shower, ignoring the mirror. He didn’t want to look at himself. More than anything he wanted to get rid of the filthy grime and energon and orange that covered him. He knocked over a few bottles in his haste to open the solvent. He twisted it on to its highest heat setting, the steam rolling from the showerhead. He stepped under the spray, unmoving as hot solvent pelted his face, his doorwings, his little frame.

After a few breems he picked up the bottles he had knocked over, reading each until he found the one he was looking for – it would strip him bare of any and all nanites. It would sting as the make was for mechs in their final upgrades, but he didn’t care if it stripped him bare of his armour. He _despised_ this colour. He squeezed quarter of the bottle unto a sponge and began to wash away the nightmare. Behind shuttered optics, he tried to revel in the simple pleasure of hot solvent and soap; a privilege he had been denied for so long.

As the solvent and grime ran down his lanky frame and swirled into the drain, he wiggled his pedes in the soapy froth and tried to smile. _‘A smile makes the saddest man a little happier.’_ His sire always used to say that when he had been even a little down; but Freezon could never have known the depth of sadness his sparkling would reach. His chassis tightened and his throat pulled tight. “I miss you,” Smokescreen said aloud, his voice a whisper. He turned his face towards the ceiling, tears stinging his optics. “I’m in so much trouble, please, you’ve got to help me. Please, ‘tor. Please h-help m-me.”

His vocaliser cracked and spit static. The emotions he had fought so long to control broke free all at once. He started to cry, silently at first, and then, covering his optics with his fists, he sank to his knees as he gave in to long, miserable sobs that shook his frame.

Outside, a hard summer rain pounded heavily, providing nourishment for the radion crystals and golden grass, swelling creeks to their banks, and for ever washing away the trail of a frightened, alone second-frame youngling.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tell me what we know, Jazz.” Prowl invited, leaning back in his squeaky desk chair.

Jazz grimaced and handed him a datapad. He took it without show and switched it on.

It was morning again, the orn after the Festival and as Prowl sat reviewing the latest report, Jazz ticked off the failures of the past twelve joors on his hand3. “The searches and roadblocks did not reveal a thing. The rain obliterated any trail we might have had for the casettes. Dr Ambulon is on vacation, so the autopsy on Spv. Scuttle will only be done earliest by next orn.”

Prowl raised his blue optics to look at Jazz when the mech paused, his face a perfect mask of patience. “By the hesitance in your voice I assume you have more bad news.” It wasn’t a question.

Jazz shrugged and leaned his hip against Prowl’s desk. “Our, or rather _your,_ ” he dabbed a finger in Prowl’s direction, “the Honourable Proteus, got himself interviewed on all the local morning talk shows.”

Prowl pressed his fingers against the bridge of his olfactory, stifling a groan. Having worked throughout the night on the case had left him with only three joors of recharge – which had inconveniently fallen over the morning news. He was, at present, regretting that decision. “What does the honourable Proteus have to say to the residents of our fine community?”

Jazz folded his arms over his chest, his mouth pulling down in a deep frown. “He’s going to prosecute the second-frame as an adult and throw him in detention for the slammer for the rest of his life. When pressed by the reporter he said he wouldn’t rule out deep stasis lock at a plenary institution.”

Prowl frowned, his aversion for Proteus growing. “I doubt he will find a judge who will be willing to send a second-frame into deep stasis lock.” He made no attempt to conceal his disdain for Proteus. While ambitious prosecuters normally made some pretence of denying their political ambitions, Proteus had made it known to the electorate that he wanted to be the next Cybertronian Senator representing Praxus.

The only cases he prosecuted personally were the ones that met the two-part standard of being highly publicised and sure to win. Prowl could only imagine what Proteus had to say this morning. A central theme of his campaign rhetoric had been the loss of morality among younglings. With elections only five quartexes away, Proteus could not have asked for a better platform from which to pontificate.

“I presume that he has been true to form and set the enforcers up to take the fall if something goes wrong.” Prowl drew his doorwings high, flicking them in dismissal of the bothersome mech and turned back to his partner. “Is there anything else?”

“Nothing good,” Jazz pouted as he studied his taloned hands. “Patrols are all looking for the youngster; we got a better picture to work with, though. Pulled one from his old youngling centre’s vornpad.” He withdrew a datapad from subspace, stared at it for a few clicks then handed it to Prowl.

Prowl’s spark twisted as he held the image. Memories of another youngling brushed at him, but he pushed them back down where they belonged.

The youngling staring back at him could have stepped off the front of a Garbage-O’s. This little mech smiled easily, flashing big, innocent blue optics at the cameramech. Yellow chevron crested and long slooping doorings, the youngling in the picture appeared not to have a care in the galaxy. It was a painful contrast to the official image attached to his YDC file.

“He doesn’t look much like a cold-sparked killer, does he?” Jazz commented, his visor locked on Prowl. The mech looked like he wanted to say more, but decided not to.

Prowl vented and placed the image on his desk. The media would be receiving that image soon, and it wasn’t something he was looking forward to. “Is the team assembled?”

“Yep. They’re all waiting for our shiny afts to inspire them.” Jazz pushed off the desk and beckoned Prowl to walk ahead, making a show of staring at Prowl’s behind.

Prowl flicked his doorwings. He was used to Jazz’s quips – which, to him, came at the most inappropriate times. He had once or twice tried to reason with Jazz or even scold him, but that only seemed to encourage the mech. So Prowl ignored him.

Together, they headed across the squad room to the small conference room, where four other division helms had gathered. Prowl marched to the front of the room, and as his manner was, got straight to the point.

“You are all aware that there was a murder at the YDC last night and that the suspected killer, a second-frame youngling, is on the run.” As Prowl spoke, Jazz passed out copies of the image taken from Smokescreen’s vornpad.

“I want to stress to each and every one of you that I want this case closed and Smokescreen safe in custody by the end of this orn. Thus far, our searches and our roadblocks have not turned up anything. Sergeant Jazz will be getting the interstate corps involved in this after our meeting, however, I would prefer this case to be resolved while it is still a local matter.”

With that the meeting ended.

As Prowl traversed the five metres to the door, he overheard on of the division helms comment, ‘sure is a cute kid.’

Prowl stopped dead in his tracks, doorwings hiking high. He turned around to glare at the source of the comment. “I will remind you, Kup, that that ‘cute kid’ murdered a fellow law-enforcement officer. If you do your job, he will not have the chance to do it again.”

 

 ***

 

Smokescreen woke dented but warm under a soft, thick mesh in the middle of a super-sized berth. The Star shone through the open shutters at just the right angle to sting his optics into wakefulness. He arched his doorwings high, flaring them wide as he stretched the taunt cables. He relaxed back into the luxurious softness and glanced at the chronometer display next to the berth. It read twelve-forty-eight. He grumbled and rolled onto his side, burying his helm into a pillow and pulling the mesh high.

Moments later a small radio next to the berth blared to life. Smokescreen’s optics shot open as he twisted round to stare at the radio. Scowling, he slapped at the top of the radio until the noise stopped, then settled back into the warmth and waited for recharge to return.

It lasted only a breem before he realised the spell had been broken. He was wide awake. Already memories were floating back to him, and his helm began to fill up with thoughts of what he needed to do to plan his escape. Whatever he decided, he was going to have to think things through very carefully.

He drew a deep vent. There was plenty of time to plan, Smokescreen told himself. And unfortunately an equal amount of time for him to worry. He turned his helm back to the chronometer. It read thirteen-hundred joors. His optic ridges scrunched together. Hmmm, there had to be some good cartoons on the Telly. He lifted himself onto his elbows. As he had crept into the dark berthroom last night, the first thing he had noticed was the huge entertainment centre mounted on the wall opposite the berth.

He spotted the remote on the berthside table and grabbed it, settling comfortably on the berth. He thumbed the ‘on’ icon. The enormous screen jumped to life with startling speed. The channel was set on a news station, and he was greeted with a full-screen image of himself glaring sullenly out of the screen.

He swallowed and sat forward as the screen cut to a live-streaming of a gleaming mech in front of the YDC building. Smokescreen didn’t like the sparkless look in the mech’s optics. He read the description: ‘Hon. Proteus, State’s Attorney.’

‘We cannot overstate the seriousness of the crime we are investigating,’ Proteus said, looking directly into the camera. “We believe that Smokescreen killed Spv Scuttle, and we will pursue him and the charges against him with all the vigour appropriate to the offences with which he is charged.’

‘What will happen to him if he’s caught?’ an off-camera voice asked.

The mech didn’t even pause to consider his options. ‘When he is caught, it is my intent to prosecute the youngling as a fully-upgraded mech. If he can commit a mech-crime, then he can pay the mech-price.’

‘Surely you are not suggesting the stasis lock penalty?’ the mech asked incredulously.

Proteus chuckled, the sound grating. ‘First, let’s get the youngling back behind stasis fields where he belongs. We’ll worry about his ultimate disposition as we prepare for the trial.’

“Stasis lock…” Smokescreen gasped aloud as he shot up, standing on the berth. His doorwings trembled, clattering against his back. “That means…that means those little boxes they place you in and then forget about you….” Uncle Natron had told him about them. Had gloated about them.

_‘I’ll have your worthless frame stasis locked, and then request they put your little personality chips deep into cold storage, where no one will ever bother to find you again!’_

Smokescreen picked up the soft mesh and wrapped it around his nanite-stripped frame. Through large, mesmerised optics he watched as the screen cut back to the anchorfemme behind a bureau. “Rook has been tracking the enforcer investigation since this story first broke. Rook, are the enforcers closer to finding the suspect – the youngling Smokescreen?”

“Well, Andromeda,” Rook said, “All morning long, the Crystal County Enforcers have been long on details about the efforts to locate the missing youngling, but short on information about the results of said efforts.” The picture changed again to a pristine looking Praxian, with flared doorwings and a stern mouth. He reminded Smokescreen of a cyberhawk. The caption identified him as Lt. Prowl, Crystal County Enforcers Department.

The only sound associated with the pictures continued to come from the reporter designated ‘Rook’. “Detective Lieutenant Prowl addressed reporters in the early joors of this morning with what has to be a very embarrassing report for the enforcers. According to Lieutenant Prowl, there may have been as much as a three-joor delay in beginning the search for the escapee, and once that search finally got under way, a number of factors conspired to foul up the operation, including everything from traffic delays to last night’s torrential storm, which rendered the cassettes – usually used to track fugitives – useless. Before this case is closed, somemech might have to answer some tough questions as to the handling of it. With elections just around the bend, it seems that mech might be Proteus, and that the mecha asking the questions may be the electorate…”

Smokescreen pointed the remote at the screen and hit the ‘mute’ button. The sound cut off instantly, rendering the newscaster soundless. Somewhere in the back of his processor, Smokescreen knew the report should have frightened him, but mostly he felt proud. He’d been gone for over twenty joors and the they still didn’t have a clue where he was.

He giggled as relief swept through him and he fell to his knees, bouncing on the soft berth. The relief left him giddy. He had some time to think. He had some time to plan. He drew in a deep vent and blew it out slowly, his doorwings bouncing on his back.

His processor pinged him with the need to fill his tank at the same time his tank gave an uncanny rumble. _Right._ He still needed to grab something to munch and then get some colour nanites. Hopefully the mechs that lived here had younglings. Mecha-nanites stung horribly when you put them on, and his plating was already sensitive after the harsh scrub of the evening before.

He crawled off the berth, for the first time, Smokescreen began to believe that he might actually outwit them. The problem with fully-fledged mecha was they thought like fully-fledged mecha. Younglings had never been fully upgraded, yet they knew _exactly_ what the old frames were thinking, while the old frames had spent vorns being younglings, but they could never figure out how to think like younglings.

He fluffed his armour, smile pulling at his lips. It was kinda sad, really.

Smokescreen wondered back down into the kitchen, intent on silencing his helm and his tanks. He paused as he walked past the counter. His optics lit up. There, sitting all too innocently in the middle of the breakfast nook sat a jar full of rust sticks.

Smiling, he grabbed the container, opened it and shoved one of the delicious morsels into his mouth. He moaned and dropped his helm back at the chewy delight. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he ate something so _good_. It had to have been with….He blinked and rightened his helm again. He wasn’t going there.

He swallowed and ventured back towards the elevator. The first-floor hallway was arranged in a sweeping semicircle that spanned out to Smokescreen’s right. He’d better search the rooms – hopefully he’d find a youngling’s room. He was betting on it, since the whole street had been filled with younglings the previous evening.

He pushed open the first room, and bit back his disappointment. It was a spare berthroom. Everything was neat and tidy and felt _unlived_ in. It was also a very neutral colour – maybe off-white? Shrugging, he pressed on.

He finally found what he was looking for behind the third door. It opened into a large room, the walls adorned with posters of different racers. On one stood the very recognizable figure of Blurr as he held the Ibex Cup. He grinned as he recognised another poster of a set of up-and-coming twins standing on a racetrack in Iacon. He grinned as he chewed on another rust stick. Before he went to live with Uncle Natron, he had had that poster on the wall of his own berthroom. Sad memories tugged at his spark as he stood there, but he shoved them away. Swallowing, he turned and looked at the room. He was relieved that the regular occupant of the room was clearly a mechling his age. He spent his time going through everything, looking for something useful. He pulled out a large temporary tattoo of the number “38”. Blurr’s number. He smiled as he held it. He went to place it back then halted. They _would_ look nice on his doorwings….if he could stick them on there. Venting, he put them away.

The door on the far side of the room attracted his attention and he jogged towards it. “Yes!” He stepped into a full washrack, the walls lined with polishes, soaps and best of all – colour nanites. A couple of variations of colour nanites. Orange, Green, Blue, Yellow, Red – _yep, this guy was into racers._ He scratched his chin. It gave him an idea. He could apply all three those colours and stick the numbers on his doorwings. It would definitely be different than anything else he’d ever worn.

He waltzed over to the nanite applicator. Nice thing about nanites were that you could either apply them manually – or if you had a full washrack like this one, you could have them applied by robotic arms. Saved your creator a ton of time. Switching the applicator on, he browsed through the saved designs, munching while he debated which design. Finally, he settled on one that had been programmed nearly a vorn ago – and had only been used once. If he had to be honest, he chose it because it reflected three of his favourite racers – Blurr and the Twins. He just added one, tiny detail to the design. He headed over to the colour nanites, chose the red, blue and yellow, and inserted them into the applicator holder.

With a satisfying push of the button, he spread his arms and doorwings and waited to be coloured like a normal looking bot.

A joor later and having put everything back in place and wiped the design from the applicator’s memory, Smokescreen returned to the master berthroom and ventured a look at the full-length mirror. A little scrawny and pale, maybe, but the youngling he knew to be himself had returned. He grinned as he flared his doorwings, now painted mostly blue, and wiggled them. The racing number “38” were written boldly across his doorwings. Dangerous, yeah sure. But after two washes they would come off. He had programmed the nanites like that. He leaned forward and looked at his bruised optic. The swelling was done around the optic, so at least he didn’t look like a cyclops anymore. And it wasn’t exactly abnormal for an active youngling to have a bit of bruising here and there. If he just acted like it was normal, then no mech would question him.

He nodded at himself, placing his hands on his hips. All in all, he approved of what he saw. Smokescreen felt his confidence inch up, sparked of hope for himself and his future that he had not felt in nearly a vorn; not since Uncle Natron had him thrown in jail.

His fists balled. There he went thinking about that stuff again! He had to stop doing that. Scary thoughts and bad memories only made him feel frightened and confused; neither of which he could afford if he was going to make it. He shook his helm as he turned back to the berth, making a running start and them leaping onto its softness. He giggled as he bounced on the berth. It lasted just long enough for him to realise that the chronometer radio had cycled back on, blaring a new talk show. It took him all of five clicks to realise that mecha on the radio were talking about him.

Then he computed what they were saying.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaster the cassette-former, single creator of three cassettes, had been ‘The Glitch’ on _TheHub223_ for nearly thirty-two vorns, a transformation that was so accidental that is somehow seemed ordained that his show would become a thriving success not only in the state of Praxus, but throughout most of the Northern Hemisphere…and some would argue the Southern too.

In the quartex of Liege, thirty-two vorns before, he had been nothing more than a traffic reporter, granted half a breem of air time every half joor. His job had been nothing more than to inform Cybertronians what roads were open, what accidents had happened, and occasionally detours needed to be taken.

Nothing exciting.

That was until their regular morning talent, Boss Bluster, had called in that morning from the prime location of the Cybertropolis Detention Centre, where he had been offered a guest room in return for several outstanding warrants ranging from failure to pay youngling support, to assault with intent to do serious harm and murder.

No tears leaked over that one.

But with only ten breems advance notice, Blaster was told that he would het his beg chance in major market radio.

It was the opportunity he had been begging Primus for. Knowing it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance granted by the gods, Blaster had walked into the booth briskly and confidently. Vorns later, his then sound-engineer and current producer Tailspin confided in him that he had lost fifty shanix that orn betting that Blaster would leave in tears before the end of the first commercial.

Yet the bouncy bot, instead of being a nervous wreck, had come out of the theme song swinging and tapping to the beat. “I’m not the voice you were expecting to hear this fine orn,” he had said, his first words ever as a DJ, “that sweet little voice is learning to sing the song of the jail avian.”

For the next five joors Blaster railed on about what was wrong with the social fabric of Cybertron, ranging from the gilds to the problems in the senate, not hesitating to traipse on territory normally considered forbidden. Through his entire first show, the station’s comm lines remained jammed with callers trying to assail his positions.

But Blaster’s defining moment came when a shy bot named Jolt from downtown Iacon called in to tell him, “No office, Blaster, but you’re really coming over as a total glitch.”

Without missing a beat, Blaster retorted, “Why thank you my mech, but I’m not just _a_ glitch, I’m _the_ Glitch of Iacon”.

And that had been a pure stroke of lucky genius – because in an industry where a marketable identity means everything, Blaster had stumbled upon a winner.

Within a decaorn of starting his new career, Blaster’s salary had been quintupled, in return for his signature on an unheard-of ten vorn exclusive contract.

He represented everything that is supposed to fail in radio: a young, inexperienced, single-with-dependants cassette-carrier who spoke openly and evenly about everything from frame-discrimination to youngling-rearing.

The thing that made Blaster a success – and that garnered him one of the largest number of fans across the Northern Hemisphere – was that he offered a real mecha’s view on life. When he said what he thought, it had the ring of truth with which his audience could identify – and he did so freely.

By the time Smokescreen had heard him for the first time in the berthroom of a stranger’s house, Blaster’s how had been syndicated globally, and was being heard on 983 stations around Cybertron.

During his monologue at the beginning of the show that morning, Blaster had railed against the state of the younglings on Cybertron, citing as a prime example the horrendous and senseless murder story that played out in Praxus – and at the hands of a second-frame youngling no less!

“The prosecutor on this case says he’s gonna try this youngster as an adult, and personally I think that’s great. How many timed do you hear the stories of gang killings, and drive-by killings and robbery killings, only to find out that the killing is being done by pint-sized little predacons. I, for one, and tired to the bottom of my tanks of it. I, for one, am prepared to stand up and say, mech or femme, youngling or fully-upgraded, if you intentionally take the life of another mech, I don’t want you as part of my society. Period.”

The comms went ballistic, every light flashing urgently by the time he was done with his tirade. Promising to talk to the listeners on hold as soon as he came back, he switched to commercials.

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his helm. “Unbelievable, if you ask me.” He turned to watch his producer who leant against the booth’s door.

“Half the callers want to offline the youngling, and half of them want to offline _you._ ” Tailspin jabbed a finger at the red mech.

Blaster raised his onyx optics from his notes to stare at Tailspin. “Listen,” he said, “screen out callers who want to tell me the kid is innocent, ok?”

Tailspin stared at him for a click longer then gave him a thumbs up.

 

* * *

 

Smokescreen sat on the edge of the wide berth, listening for more than twenty breems to streams of mecha passing judgement on him.

He bit his trembling bottom lip, doorwings arched high as he fought the angry tears. _How could they say those ugly things? They weren’t even there._ He closed his optics. They didn’t hear Scuttle’s threats, or…or feel his hands around their throats. They didn’t know – pit they probably didn’t even care – that if he hadn’t killed Scuttle then he would be the one deactivated in that horrible little cold cell….

He drew his knees up high and hugged them to his chest. The more he heard, the more he realised that the truth was becoming irrelevant. No one had heard his side of the story. All they heard were the lies the enforcers were telling about him. Lies.

He opened his optics, a determined glint shining through them. He could change that, couldn’t he? All he had to do was connect a comm link to the station and set the record straight. There wouldn’t be any harm in a single link, could there? He could simply disconnect if things got too hot and that would be that. But at least he’d get a chance to explain himself. Sire had always said that one should tell the truth and that if you did something, you need to say why you did it.

Nodding to himself, he hopped off the berth and headed to the side table.

Fully-upgraded mechs had internal comm links that could send and receive signals within a specific radius, some even had long-reach comm links that could link one up to the other end of Cybertron. His sire had once said some links could even span a galaxy! But most mechs only had short range. Younglings didn’t have any at all.

And those two factors usually meant that mechs had an external comm link installed in their units.

Smokescreen yanked open the top drawer, rummaging through the contents until he found the small holo-display. He took it out, turned it round until he found the ‘transmit’ button, and pressed it. The holo display flicked to life, asking for input. He drew a deep vent as he padded over to the berth, settling comfortably on it and entered the contact information query for _TheHub223._

His doorwings sagged as the comm link flashed the ‘pre-engaged’ signal.

He sent the connection request through again. And again. And again.

Each time he got a fresh ‘pre-engaged’ signal. On his ninth - or was it tenth? – try he heard some odd static sounds and then the connection beeped ‘engaging’. After what seemed to be the millionth ‘beep’, someone answered.

“You’ve reached the Glitch Line,” the sassy voice said, “What do you want to talk about?”

Smokescreen swallowed. He reset his vocaliser and drew a deep vent. “I want to talk about this Smokescreen thing.”

“Are you a youngling?” The voice sounded surprised, then a big sigh. “Look, he doesn’t talk to younglings.”

Smokescreen shook his helm, wondering if the mech on the other side was blind or if the holo didn’t display his face. Hmmm, he turned it around and saw that it was on ‘vocal only’. He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he talk to the mech. In his most persuasive voice, he replied, “I think he’ll want to talk to me. I’m Smokescreen.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blaster was ready to shift gears again. They had been on the Smokescreen topic for over fifty breems and they had stopped receiving original input. He rolled his optics as another mech waffled on, shaking his helm. He opened his mouth to say that they were going to move on to the way the Prime was handling foreign affairs when Tailspin’s excited voice pooped in his comm.

::You’ve got to take the caller on line number eight!::

The look Blaster fired at his producer should have melted the glass that separated them.

Recognising the look for what it was – a definite threat to his career – Tailspin explained, ::It’s a youngling claiming to be the notorious Smokescreen. _The Smokescreen!_ My tank says he’s telling the truth.::

Blaster narrowed his optics. If it were true, they could be on the verge of terrific radio. Their ratings would shoot through the roof. It would literally be a defining moment. He focused on Tailspin again. If it wasn’t…::Did you see him?::

::No, he’s on vocals only, but I’m telling you – ::

::Fine. :: Blaster cut him off. He was going to risk it.

“Well now, it would appear that we have a celebrity on the link.” He made quite a show of pushing the key numbered ‘eight’. “Smokescreen, are you there?”

“Yes, sir.” Said a small but determined voice from the other end. For vorns, Blaster had prided himself on his ability to recognise a mech’s character and traits through analysing their voice patterns. This was the voice of a Young Scouts Corps and a high-end youngling centre; the voice of someone who was honest.

Blaster instantly began to second-guess his original conclusions about Smokescreen.

 

* * *

 

Prowl was already beginning to feel the results of too little recharge, and the vile substance that was supposedly called energon which Jazz had given him had caused his tanks to summersault and burn. In fact, his tanks had not stopped burning. He’d need to ask Ambulon for something without his partner noticing.

He rubbed his optics as he continued staring at the datapad held in his hand. Datapads were stacked high on the pristine desk, untouched for two orns now as they waited patiently for Prowl to finish them.

He would send them off to Barricade to go through. With Proteus having jumped the gun and the spat of what Jazz termed bad-luck that plagued this case, Prowl could not afford to divide his time with the closed cases and this ongoing case.

And beside the ongoing case – Sideburn’s casual remark regarding Dash had touched a sensitive chord. Not to mention the cruel humour of Unicron making the main suspect of this case a youngling Dash’s age.

Prowl drew a deep vent. Dash’s case was closed. Has been closed for over three vorns. He had better bring his attention back to the open case.

“You still starin’ at that datapad?”

Prowl lifted his optics to study his silver partner. The visor was dimmer than normal, and the finish was a tad less shiny than usual.

“I presume that you have been doing the same.” Prowl motioned to the old worn-out easy chair Jazz had annexed upon his arrival in Praxus.

“Yeah, still going through the notes, trying to see if we missed anything. Spoke to Soundwave too, but even though he had the cassettes loose he didn’t pick anything up.”

Prowl flicked his doorwing back. “Yes, but we expected that much.”

Instead of taking his seat Jazz meandered around the desk to stand beside Prowl, his field calm as he lightly touched Prowl’s shoulder, his touch lingering. “You know that it’s bad luck and not bad enforcin’, right?”  

Prowl relaxed slightly under the light touch. True, it had taken him a while to adjust to his tactile partner, but after a considerable time, the gestures had become calming and oddly supportive – and to his chagrin even enjoyable.

He drew a vent, optics narrowing as he placed the datapad on his desk. “I am inclined to believe that luck does not have a part in investigations, but I am aware that we have often debated this subject.”

“And will continue to do so,” the hand was withdrawn, and Jazz swaggered back to his chair, plopping into it, “And when I win, I’m taking you out for energon at one of the fancy places.”

Prowl simply cocked an optic ridge. _Not if it is the same stock you brought me earlier._

His internal comm pinged and he raised his hand to indicate to Jazz he was receiving a call. Without being consciously aware of the caller ID, he answered his comm. ::Lieutenant Prowl.::

::Prowl. This is Proteus.:: the agitated voice filtered through.

 _Just what I require._ Prowl shuttered his optics as he drew a calming vent, regretting that he did not check the ID first. ::Good orn, Proteus. I see you were up early for the media.::

Contrary to his nature, the agitated prosecutor uncharacteristically ignored the well-aimed barb. ::Turn on the radio!:: Proteus barked. ::Turn on The Glitch. That little miscreant is there talking to him right now! I’ll call you when they’re done.::


	5. Chapter 5

Smokescreen’s nervousness disappeared as soon as he started talking. Doorwings swinging side to side, he paced around the master berthroom, having been unable to sit quietly on the berth.

“Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?” He demanded, his voice thick.

“Whatever happened to the sanctity of a spark? Don’t you think killing is wrong?” Blaster raised the questions, but carefully modulated his voice so as not to sound condemning. Having creations of his own, he was used to these types of conversation – although the content was something entirely new.

“Of course I do, but you don’t have any idea what went on in there.” Smokescreen frowned, his armour fluffing ever so slightly.

“Did you kill the guard?”

Smokescreen’s voice rose in pitch with his frustration and he rolled his optics. “Yes, but—”

Blaster cut him off, “No buts, Smokescreen. You killed the guard. What more is there to know? Why don’t you hang up the phone right now and turn yourself in, before you or somebody else gets hurt.”

Smokescreen balled his fist as he sat down on the corner of the berth, doorwings high as he stared angrily at the linking device. _Full-frames!_ He drew an audible vent. “I can’t go back.” He stated matter-of-factly. “If I go back, they’ll just hurt me again. Or kill me.” He pursed his lips. “That’s what Scuttle was trying to do! I can’t, I won’t go back and just let them hurt me again! What about the s-sanc—the importance of my spark!?”

The line went silent for a long moment. Smokescreen checked the connection to be sure when Blaster’s voice sounded again. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “You’re sayin’ that the guard, Scuttle, was trying to kill you? That right?”

Smokescreen took a deep vent and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, Smokes,” Blaster said, “let’s start over. Innocent until proven guilty. In essence you’re telling me that you killed the guard in self-defence.”

“Yeah, except they’re not called guards, they’re called supervisors.”

“Well, the last thing I want to do is get in trouble with the supervisors.” Blaster said, surprised to hear the tone of his own voice becoming warmer. There was something about this youngling that was truly disarming – or it was simply his carrier protocols kicking into high gear. Either way, if what the youngster was saying was even remotely true, then Blaster wanted this investigated. And he wanted this youngster safe. “Ok, you tell us what actually happened last orn.”

Smokescreen propped the soft pillows and mesh up high against the headboard of the big berth and stretched his pedes out in front of him, flexing them as he placed the link device on his midsection. “I don’t really know where to start….” He began. “I guess I learned the hard way that I’d never get along with the others in there. Their idea of a good time was to steal my stuff and, well, do really bad things to me like beat me up or pull my wings, whatever they found to be funny. I tried fighting back, but I just ended up getting plastered.”

“Why didn’t you tell somebody?” Blaster interrupted.

Smokescreen snorted bitterly, his doorwings sagging. “Yeah right. I tried that once on my first orn there. Biggest mistake I made. I told Scuttle, as a matter of fact. He’s the mech, that, well, you know….”

He swallowed as he blinked away the nightmarish images. “Anyway, there’s this area in the YDC where everybody gets together for school or sports or just hanging, or you know, whatever. You know, like a recroom. I was there, trying to read, when Scuttle came up to me and told me I had to come with him. I hadn’t done anything wrong or broken any of the rules or taken someone’s stuff, but I knew I was in trouble. I still don’t know why…”

For the next thirty breems, Smokescreen unraveled his side of the story for millions of Cybertronians listening from the Northern to the Southern hemispheres. He spoke articulately and in detail, and with the kind of animation and frankness only a youngling can generate.

Blaster interrupted him only three times to clarify what he was saying, but otherwise sat silently, staring at his unblinking control board and visualizing in his own processor the events described by Smokescreen. But the time the youngling was done, the show was thirteen commercials behind, but even the sponsors wouldn’t complain – after all. This was radio at its finest.

 

* * *

 

 _Smokescreen had long since finished the datapads in the YDC library that were worth reading. That orn, being the Festival of Primus, it seemed like a good idea to reread the story about a young dataclerk who became a prime to save his mechs from the evil clutches of the Decepticons, who had wanted to dominate all of Cybertron. He always imagined that he had been one of those brave few that had ventured on the_ Ark _to a distant organic planet…and saved them too._

_The recroom was literally and figuratively the centre of activity at the YDC. Roughly pentagonal in shape and fabricated out of heavy steel and painted a garish yellow-orange, the recroom served all non-recharging activities. Three glass-partitioned rooms served as classrooms during the orn, with the largest of the rooms doubling as the dining hall. The detention cells extended down two hallways on opposite ends of the pentagon – one for the second frames and one for the third frames. Not that there was much difference between them. From nine hundred joors in the early orn to thirty-two hundred joors at night, the doors to those hallways remained tightly locked. By thirty-two hundred thirty, they were locked again – all their residents safely tucked away inside. The fifth side of the pentagon, the one between the two hallways, held the control room._

_At around twenty-six hundred joors that night, Scuttle entered the recroom from the administrative section, which was accessed by a reinforced door to the side of the control room. He walked directly over to Smokescreen, and lifted him out of the chair by his chevron. “Come with me.” He had slurred, reeking of engex. “Maybe a night in the Crisis Unit will teach you to… to scratch the walls.”_

_Smokescreen hung onto Scuttle’s forearm with both hands and danced on the tips of his pedes to keep his chevron from being ripped from his helm. It throbbed as he tried to recall any scratches he had made on the wall. “Please, Scuttle, please let me go I didn’t do anything! I promise.” He pleaded. It had to have been one of the older mechs that had framed him. He started whimpering. “I didn’t do anything!”_

_Scuttle didn’t reply, except to lift a little higher and grip his chevron tighter. They paused at the door to the Crisis Unit long enough for Scuttle to take out his keycard. As he swiped it along the keypad, Smokescreen began to panic. The Crisis Unit was little more than a single cell, set apart from all the rest, where a resident in crisis could regain his composure._

_In reality, it was a place of punishment, where anything from recharge to energon to light could be denied. Though it was rarely used, the Crisis Unit had a notorious reputation among the residents._

_Smokescreen was terrified out of his processor._

_The keypad chimed its acceptance and turned from red to green. The door slid open and Smokescreen screamed louder still, crying like a sparkling at the sight of the dark room. He ducked his helm and scooted back, but the supervisor grabbed his arm in a grasp that had his thin armour buckling. “Scuttle, p-please, you’re h-h-hurting me and I d-didn’t do anything!” His doorwings folded back flat against his back, his armour clattering._

_“If you yell one more time, you’ll find out what hurt really means!”_

_Smokescreen renewed his struggle, pulling his arm from Scuttle’s grasp, only to be taken to the floor by his chevron. Scuttle followed him down to the ground, and placed his mouth next to Smokescreen’s audial. “Listen to me, mechling,” he growled, “You’re going in that room if I have to break every strut in your worthless frame to make it happen!”_

_He stood once more, dragging Smokescreen up by his now-pounding chevron. He one-handed the keypad again, and half-shoved, half-tossed Smokescreen into the tiny cell._

_The Crisis Unit was surprisingly like all the other cells in the YDC, though about half the size. It was best described as a cold, empty box. And empty it was – it held no berth, the walls were bare of even a single dent. The worse was the claustrophobia that nearly drove winged-mecha to panic. The interior was painted a dark, nearly black colour that seemed to reflect the coldness and hatred that the place harboured._

_Smokescreen scrambled to his knees and into the farthest corner of the room. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his doorwings draping defensively over him. He stared, wide-opticed at the silhouette of Scuttle standing in the doorway. With the backlight his entire frame appeared black, save for the flecks of red and purple emanating from his optics._

_“Not a sound from you mechling.” He vented harshly. His doorwings jerked to and fro, perked high in anger._

_Smokescreen slumped and started to cry again, although he tried muffling them. He hated himself for giving in to the tears, but no matter how much he tried he couldn’t stop himself from crying in front of these mechs._

_His doorwings quivered as Scuttle stepped into the room, sure that he was going to be slapped for making a sound with his crying, but then with a harsh bark Scuttle stepped back out and abruptly disappeared, locking the door behind him._

_Cold, confused, and miserable, Smokescreen rested his aching helm on his knees, forcing himself to regain his composure. ‘Only ten more quartexes’, he told himself. His frame hiccupped as his vents cycled. ‘Only ten more quartexes and I’m outa here. It’s been nine quartexes already, in half that time, it’ll be a vorn, and after half of that I get out. I’ll be free. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this’._

_The sound of the keypad beeping woke Smokescreen from his fitful recharge. He curled in on himself, frame trembling from fright and cold. Harsh fluorescent lights suddenly blinded him as they flared to life. He lay quietly, not daring to move as he waited for the door to open. Yet nothing happened._

_He glanced at the door, pushing himself up but keeping to his corner. He brought his knees to his chest again. Still nothing happened. His spark sped up. He knew someone had unlocked the door…Was that meant for him to go? But what if he did…and it was a trap? What if….what if someone was waiting beyond that door and they accused him of wanting to escape? Then he’d have to stay here even longer. He swallowed a small whimper that lodged in his throat._

_Though he tried to tell himself there was nothing to be afraid of, the fear he felt was a growing monster – real in every fibre of his being. His spark pounded in his chest like a drum. Maybe he should get up and go to the door? Surely that was what they wanted?_

_The door suddenly swooshed open and Smokescreen jumped. Scuttle stood in the doorway alone, the harsh, white light barely reflecting off his armour. He was overcharged. Or stoned. Smokescreen could tell by the empty look in his optics. It was a look he knew well from Uncle’s friends._

_“Scuttle?” He whispered, pressing himself against the wall. His optics fell to Scuttle’s twitching hands._

_He was hiding something in his left hand, keeping it just out of his sight behind his back._

_The fear tasted bitter in Smokescreen’s mouth. He knew what mecha were capable of when they were in this condition – had felt it with his own small frame. He knew that it was worthless trying to tell himself that nothing was going to happen. He could feel it in his being that something_ very _bad was going to happen. For the first time he felt scared for his life…There was simply something in Scuttle’s empty glare that told him this would be the fight of his life – for his life. Something small and determined settled in his spark._

_Scuttle staggered into the room, then caught himself with his right hand. He tucked his left hand deeper behind his back. He lifted his helm and straightened, walking slowly as he watched Smokescreen with an odd smile. “You never really belonged here, you know.” The words were slurred and tinged with static. “Sooner or later, the others woulda killed you anyway.”_

_“Anyway?” Smokescreen echoed softly, his processor racing until it caught up with the one word that sent him reeling._

Killed.

_Scuttle halved the distance between them in a single step, his armour flaring dangerously as small luminous lines lit on his frame._

_Smokescreen pressed himself back into the wall as far as he could, his small doorwings protesting. He glanced around. He was cornered. He balled his fists, optics wide as his vents came out in harsh puffs. He knew pain was coming. He wasn’t going to cower to it! Not again!_

_“I’ll try not to make it hurt too bad, kid,” Scuttled reassured him, his weird smile getting broader and his optics lighter._

_Smokescreen looked desperately for a way to dash around Scuttle. It was easy to outmanoeuvre a charged mech: he had proved that hundreds of times with Uncle Natron. But the cell was so small, and Scuttle was so big that there was nowhere to duck and dash around him._

_“Thinking of something?” Scuttle laughed._

_Smokescreen glanced back at the mech and froze._

_In his big hands a virboblade glowed ominously._

_If Scuttle had acted quickly and just lashed out at Smokescreen, it would have ended right there. But Scuttle, being on a charge-induced power trip, had chosen drama over efficiency. Here was a tiny creature cowering before him, and he held its life in his hands. He chuckled, waving the knife around in front of Smokescreen’s face._

_Like lightening the small tendrils of fight that hid in his spark struck. Smokescreen didn’t hesitate. Bracing his back against the wall, he shot his leg straight out, driving his pede squarely into Scuttle’s midsection. Had the mech not been overcharged, it wouldn’t have been so effective, but instead the mech staggered a step back and dropped to his knees, dragging air into his winded vents. Smokescreen flew up, vaulting over Scuttle’s stooped shoulders, but he had underestimated the mechs size and instead of jumping over him, he only made it halfway, his knees contacting Scuttle’s helm and making them both tumble to the ground in pained cries. Before he could get fully to his pedes, the blade came down at Smokescreen in a wide, powerful arc from above. Out of reflex Smokescreen lifted his hand, deflecting the trajectory just enough to miss, but absorbing most of the energy of the blow in his elbow. Pain shot through his arm, but Scuttle recoiled instantly for another strike. Ignoring his arm, Smokescreen pulled himself up on his knees, and lunged at the hand with the only weapon he had – his dentas. He bit down as hard as he could until the tangy taste of energon from burst lines flooded his mouth and he felt small struts give way to his denta. He grabbed hold of Scuttle’s arm, pulling himself close._

_Scuttles howled like a cybercat as the pain finally registered. He waved his arm wildly, but the denta only sank deeper until he finally dropped the blade, allowing it to clang harmlessly to the floor. In one smooth motion, Scuttle swung Smokescreen close, then drove a pistonlike punch to the youngling’s optic._

_The impact of the punch sent Smokescreen reeling against the wall, his helm slamming into the cold surface. For a full, five clicks the two sat staring at each other in dazed stupor. Then, together, they eyed the blade on the floor, and together, they lunged for it._

_Smokescreen had said it a million times – a sober youngling can outmanoeuvre a charged adult any time of the orn. He snatched the blade from the cold concrete and whirled around in a backhanded slashing motion designed to make Scuttle jump back._

_But instead of the free movement of air, Smokescreen’s blade arm encountered resistance._

_Unable to react quickly enough to protect himself, Scuttle seemed to watch dumbly as the blade buried itself to the hilt in his midsection, the faint glow disappearing beneath blue-tinted energon._

_As the blade drove itself home, Scuttle staggered back, and like a titan fell, helm impacting loudly against the floor._

_Smokescreen screamed. He yanked his empty hands back, staring wide-opticed at Scuttle. “I’m sorry!! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Oh Primus! Scuttle I’m so sorry!”_

_Smokescreen didn’t know what to do, but he knew that if he didn’t do something, Scuttle would die. Tears slipped from his optics as he drew shaky vent. Primus what should he do?!_

_He watched the mech paw at the blade. Scuttle seemed obsessed with it; maybe he should help him and pull it out for him. That would make him feel better and show he didn’t mean it. Smokescreen moved hesitantly closer to the blade, closed his optics, and pulled it free of the wound._

_As the blade pulled clear of the wound, Smokescreen knew straight away that he had made a big mistake. Energon spurted out and Scuttle howled. His jaw clamped, distressing noises filtered through clenched denta. “Sorry!” Smokescreen breathed as his frame started shaking. He threw the blade aside and pressed his hands over the wound to try and stop the spurting, but it was useless. With every vent energon fountained through his tiny fingers and onto the cold barren floor._

_“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Tears were flowing freely. In his spark Smokescreen knew he had killed Scuttle. “I’m sorry!”_

_Out of nowhere, Scuttle’s hand shot up to Smokescreen’s throat._

_Smokescreen gasped, but nothing passed through as strong hands clamped down hard. Warnings popped in his HUD of the main energon lines being blocked. His vision blurred as pain shot through, up, around his helm. Smokescreen clawed at Scuttle’s wrist, trying to pull his hand away and make him let go, but like a glitchmice caught in a cyberhawk’s talons, Smokescreen was trapped._

_Through a haze he gazed into Scuttle’s optics. The optics glowed red, all and any reason having disappeared and replaced with a tangible hatred that Smokescreen felt through his very essence. The mech was going to die, and he was taking Smokescreen with him._

_Flailing tendrils of fight wove itself tightly around Smokescreen’s spark and he struggled harder as his helm felt on the verge of exploding. He glanced down. The blade! It was still on the floor! Smokescreen ventured a hand away from Scuttle’s wrist, wet fingers searching until they found the blade. This time, it would be no accident. It was his life or Scuttle’s. Smokescreen mustered all the strength he had left to straight-arm the blade into Scuttle’s chest. He struck over and over again, until the hand locked around his throat suddenly dropped._

_Smokescreen gasped as he fell back, frame heaving and doorwings shaking uncontrollably. He turned pale optics to Scuttle. The mech lay deathly still, the optics dark._

_He panicked. He glanced around. The Crisis Unit looked like a house of horrors. A supervisor was dead, and they were going to blame him, like they always do. Say goodbye to a fourteen-quartex release. No way, kiddo, killing a supervisor was like the worst crime ever! Even if he hadn’t meant it. Even if it had been a supervisor who had tried to kill him. No way. They wouldn’t believe him. They’d lock him in this little room and throw away the keycard!_

_His vents hitched. No, staying here and facing the music was not even an option. He had to get the Pit our of the Youngling Detention Centre. Had had to run fast, run hard, and run now._

_He sprang to his pedes, wobbled as nausea and pain flooded his systems. He leaned against the wall, venting deep and hard._ Get out! Get Out! Get Out! _He pushed himself upright and lunged for the door, but somewhere in the fight it had shut and locked. Smokescreen glanced back at the greying frame of Scuttle and felt ready to purge._

_Swallowing the fist lodged in this throat, he ran over and searched the mech. Running a finger beneath one of the seams, a small card fell out. Smokescreen snatched it with energon-covered digits and sprinted to the door. It beeped green and the door to his escape swished open._

_He darted out of the room. From there it was easy. Every locked door simply needed the card to be swiped and like magic it opened. The final door was the easiest. He opened it only a crack at first, making sure there was no one outside. He slipped through, watching as the door slid shut. He stared at it stupidly. Then as if something clicked, he spun round and sprinted over the pristine lawns of the YDC. As he ran he threw the card away. He raced up a tall hill. Beyond this hill lay freedom. He covered the distance in a flash, each step he took seemed to make him lighter. Pausing for a moment at the top of the hill, Smokescreen looked back at the YDC. It looked like such a friendly place, adorned with pretty crystals and shrubs. Yet on the inside the Crystal County Youngling Detention Centre was a garden for hatred. The seeds planted within its walls grew well, nurtured and cultivated by the likes of Scuttle._

_From atop that lonely hill, overlooking the entire compound, Smokescreen swore to himself that he would never again return to this place._

_He’d rather kill himself first._

“…and so I started running.” Smokescreen finished. He was lying on his midsection now, resting on his elbows with the soft mesh wrapped around him.

“So, are you ok?” Blaster asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Smokescreen shrugged, “I guess. My optic hurts, got some other bruises and my chevron is still sensitive, but I think I’m ok.”

“That’s good to know.” As unbelievable as this youngling’s story was, Blaster believed him. It was just something in the details, the tone that told him that this youngster was telling the truth and in need of some serious help. “Do you have any idea at all why the supervisor would want to kill you?”

“Yeah, I think he was crazy or maybe using boosters. He was definitely charged. Mechs always get like that when they’re charged.”

“Mechs like whom?” Blaster prodded, “Your creator?”

“No.” Smokescreen’s reply was stronger and more emphatic than he had intended. He drew a deep vent. He hated talking about Freezon. “My sire was a good mech. He’d never drink or hit anyone. He was awesome.”

“So, did someone in your life beat you?” Blaster stopped short of asking if it was his carrier. The kid was obviously on touchy ground and emotionally vulnerable, and yet, Blaster noted with surprise, he was genuinely interested in Smokescreen’s wellbeing.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Smokescreen replied curtly.

“Why not? It might help if mecha understood some of what you’ve gone through.”

“Slag. Mecha want to think that everybody lives like those perfect families on TV.” He sat up, plucking at the soft mesh. “If I tell them different, they’ll think I’m lying. It’s OK to yell and scream and hit their younglings, as long as the kid keeps his mouth shut. But if he hits back they throw you in jail.”

 “That how you ended up in jail? Did you hit back?” The voice was very nearly crooning, and Smokescreen recognised it as the one his sire had always used when he became upset. He bit his lip, drawing his doorwings close to his frame.

He thought back to all the fights at Uncle Natron’s house. _Maybe I should tell him everything._ Maybe he should tell him how he once did live a normal life; how his sire had raised him in a nice house in a nice neighbourhood, just the two of them. Maybe he should tell millions of mecha that only three orns after sire’s memorial, Uncle Nortan locked him in the crawl space under the living room just for laughs. Surely, the audience would enjoy hearing that his screams for help had earned him his first beating. Maybe he should tell all those mecha listening how Uncle Nortan used to like parties with all his booster buddies. Yeah. Oh and how the social workers had ignored all those calls.

There were so many things that he could tell; but he wouldn’t. They wouldn’t care, and they would think he was lying.

“No,” Smokescreen eventually answered, voice small. “I didn’t hit back, I stole a shuttle.”

Blaster stuttered, flabbergasted. “You stole a shuttle? Mechling, you’re like barely in your second upgrades.”

“Actually, I had just received my second upgrades when I stole the shuttle.” There was a trace of youngling pride at having accomplished something full-frames thought he couldn’t do. And seriously, it wasn’t that hard to steer one.

“But that’s why you got sent to the detention centre?”

“Yeah, except I call it what it is – a jail.”

There was something in the directness of his answers that struck a chord with Blaster. The kid was sharp, no doubt about that. And he was in a slag-load of trouble.

“So,” Blaster asked, “where did you run to? Where are you now?”

 _Seriously?_ Smokescreen sighed. “I don’t think it would be real smart to tell you that, do you?” He sat bolt straight, a though buzzing through his helm. “Hey, can they tack this call?” his voice took on an edge and he glanced at the window.

“No, no,” Blaster assured him. “This is a radio station, as long as there’s the Primal Constitution, no one can trace our calls.”

“You sure?”

Blaster looked at Tailspin, who was no help as he pulled his shoulders up high. “Sure I’m sure.” He was at least ninety-five percent sure of it, and it sounded like the reasonable answer. “So, what are you gonna do next? You can’t just keep running you know.”

“Why not?”

It was stated so matter-of-factly that for a moment Blaster was taken aback. “Well, because you’ll get caught.”

“Well, my only other choice is to turn myself in. How is that any different than getting caught?”

 _Damn youngling logic._ “Smokey, I’m just afraid you’ll get hurt.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s why I’m gonna keep running.”

Slat it to the Pit this mechling was good. “You’re making a fool out of me here, little bitlit.” Blaster chuckled good-naturedly.

“No, I think your doing fine,” Smokescreen comforted. “But you see my side now, don’t you? When I was in the YDC, I did everything I was supposed to do and got beat up. I tell the supervisor, and he tries to kill me. I defend myself, and the mechs who listen to your show call me a murdered and want to strip me down to a chip and file me away in a box. Nobody really…” His vocaliser caught. He fell silent, optics burning.

“Cares?” Blaster helped, gently.

Smokescreen’s lower lip was trembling now. He’d felt so together at the beginning, but suddenly a terrible sadness poured over him, like a bucket of icy solvent – except the coldness remained. Yes.” He whispered, his voice breaking on that single syllable.

Blaster shuttered his optics, his own carrier protocols urging him to protect, to comfort that tiny voice. But Smokescreen was beyond his reach. He reset his vocaliser, softly crooning. “You’re frightened aren’t you, sweatspark?”

“I’ve got to go.” Smokescreen croaked. He hung up before Blaster could say anything else.

In the dead air that followed, Blaster, for the first time in his career, looked at Tailspin for guidance as to what to say. Tailspin stared back blankly.

“Ok folks,” Blaster said at length, “that was quite something, wasn’t it? Smokes, if you’re still listening, we wish you all the luck on Cybertron and then some, however this turns out. Sounds to me like maybe you’re due for some.” He motioned to Tailspin. “I think everybody needs a minute or two to regain their composure, I know I sure as Pit do. We’ll be right back after these messages.


	6. Chapter 6

Proteus was on the line barely five clicks after the radio conversation ended. “That lying little brat is pandering for public sympathy!” the senator-in-waiting railed at Prowl. “What matters is that he escaped from a detention facility, and he killed a supervisor to do it!”

Prowl leaned back in his creaky Praxian chair, his expression blank as he listened to the prosecutor’s tantrum. And like all the others – this one was pure nonsense. The blinds flipped as a strong gust caught them, bringing on it the fresh scent of the sea’s saltiness. He wondered if another storm was brewing.

He glanced at Jazz. The mech smirked, silently indicated the holodevice planted on Prowl’s desk, and made a yacking motion with his hand. Prowl raised his optic ridge, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

After two more breems of railing, Prowl’s endless fountain of patience had dried up like the deserts to the north. “Proteus.” The designation was said quietly, but the irate prosecutor stilled. “Thank you for the call, however, I have an investigation to complete. The radio conversation has opened many alternative doors.” And with that Jazz quickly reached over the desk and slapped the ‘off’ button before Proteus could respond.

Prowl tilted his helm at Jazz, his optics serene. “That was rude.” He said without any heat.

Jazz shrugged, easy smile teasing at his lips. “Yeah it was, but face it, we’ve both been itching to do it and I just beat you to it.” His pristine blue visor winked at Prowl. “So, what was the bottom line he was blabbering about?”

“Proteus generally throws these juvenile tantrums when he has made a mistake.” Prowl sat straight in this chair and pushed the holodevice back to its normal standing place.

Jazz leaned back in his chair and lifted his pedes, resting them on the edge of Prowl’s desk. He folded his hands over his midsection and pouted. “So the issue then is that the _Honourable_ ” – he said the word as if had a bad taste – “Proteus had taken to the airwaves with only half the facts, convicted a youngling of a capital crime, sworn to punish the little mech like that too, before he and we had all the evidence.” He started chuckling, but there was no mirth in it. “So he basically had his whole persona switched from a ‘I’m-tough-on-crime’ law enforcer to a ‘I’m-gonna-beat-up-little-mechlings’ abuser.

“Unfortunately for us, yes.” Prowl tapped Jazz’s pedes with his hand, making a shooing motion. He did not enjoy it when Jazz decided his desk was a good place to rest his pedes.

Jazz leaned to the side and made a show of looking at his pedes. “Nah, don’t worry Prowl. I’m comfortable.”

Prowl turned cool optics to him. Jazz knew that wasn’t what he had meant.

“You should try it sometime. It’s really comfortable.” The grin only grew and the visor glinted as he flicked his pedes back and forth, drawing Prowl’s attention to them.

Prowl highly doubted he would find the position comfortable. It looked downright painful and he could only imagine the stress he would be placing on his joints. Finally Prowl drew a vent and leaned over again, but instead of tapping the pedes, he shoved them off. They landed with a loud _plod_ on the ground. Jazz leaned forward in his chair, toothy grin on his face. “If you like touching me, you just have to say so.”

Prowl stared at him. His partner truly was unique – it almost sounded like both invitation and imploration. “It is not that I like touching you, but that I dislike your pedes touching the top of my desk.” He turned to the side and took a datapad. “But on with the case. What do you make of the perpetrator’s story.”

Jazz nodded, his visor instantly losing the teasing glint as he became all business. “I kinda lean towards believing him. Prisons – no matter if they’re built for full frames or younglings are violent places. I know that from personal experience. And the primary function of those guards ain’t no supervising younglings and giving them hugs – it’s to crush violence. It ain’t no stretch in my processor that a member of staff can become a homicidal lunatic.”

Prowl watched Jazz closely. He was aware the mech had a record – in fact, it was in a YDC that he was approached to become part of a law enforcement program. He was one of the lucky youths who turned to the right side. And yet because Jazz knew the systems, Prowl could trust him to not simply feel empathetic towards Smokescreen’s story, but to keep to some level of objectivity. His doorwings gave a curt nod in agreement. “I have to agree that Smokescreen’s presentation of the facts ws too detailed, too articulate, to be written off as a complete lie.”

“Yeah, but the mechling’s still in trouble. He killed a mech and he escaped prison. He’s still a wanted fugitive.”

“I agree, and our priority remains to bring him in.”

“Yeah, but if it’s true that a guard did try to kill ‘em, then it’s going to make our job so much harder bringing him in. He pretty much stated that he won’t give up without a fight. Younglings can be unreasonably difficult.”

 _That is an understatement._ Prowl clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, memories assaulting his processor. Dash had once run away in a fit of anger, and it had taken Prowl quite some time to locate him. He had been angry and aggressive when Prowl had finally managed to find him, and it had taken over a joor to calm his brother down enough so that he would come to him willingly.

The difference between Dash and Smokescreen is that Dash was angry over a perceived wrong and was returning home, Smokescreen had been wronged by those who were supposed to be protecting him, and they would simply be sending him back to the same authorities that had harmed him.

Perhaps unreasonably difficult was not the right phrase – reasonably difficult was closer to the truth. Prowl flicked his doorwings back as his spark squeezed. _Smokescreen is not an innocent mechling._  It was not up to him to decide what happened to the youngling. More to himself than to Jazz, he said, “We will remember that he is a youngling who is scared, but for his own sake we need to bring him in. It is our duty as enforcers to uphold the law.”

 

* * *

 

Proteus had built a much more complicated world for himself than the one in which Prowl and his incompetent enforcers lived. In addition to considerations of mere guilt and innocence, Proteus had to consider how each prosecution would play out in the media, constantly weighing the political impact of every win and every loss. The perceived guilt of any defendant was a key element in determining how public and how aggressive the pursuit of a guilty verdict would be. This morning, it had seemed so clear in the Smokescreen-case. Mecha were sick and tired of out-of-control younglings and spiking crime rates, and the blatant murder of an upstanding corrections official by an escaping convict had been more than the general public of Praxus could bear.

Who on this side of the galaxy would have thought that the slimy little felon would take his case directly to Cybertronians on a globally syndicated radio show? It was a public relations disaster! In a few short breems that little wretch had managed to not only place the enforcers on the defensive, but him, the next-senator-to-be for the state of Praxus, in a bad light!

Proteus saw it all so clearly – the Smokescreen mechling had been incarcerated by a judge for stealing his uncle’s shuttle, and for being declared incorrigible. He was to have remained in detention for eighteen months, where he would have been taught to respect authority and other mecha’s possessions. Instead, all the public would see was a small, beaten youngling barely in his second-upgrades being pursued and outnumbered by big bad cops.

The little runt was playing on the public’s emotions! Wooing their sympathy!

The Senator-to-be was sitting on the edge of a public-relations disaster, and he held Prowl responsible. If Prowl’s enforcers hadn’t botched the response, the mechling would have been reincarcerated before dawn. Now, he’d been on the run for nearly an orn, and he had done incalculable damage to a political career in its infancy.

 

* * *

 

“Guess what I got?” Sideburn, grin plastered on his face and doorwings flared wide in excitement, nearly bounced into the small Crystal County Enforcers station. The other enforcers paid him no more heed than to briefly glance up, being used to the youngest enforcer’s enthusiasm over every and anything. Barricade was not so lucky. His enforcer rank being high enough to be assigned a rookie, and Prowl at that time been assigned guardianship over Dash, the laborious chore of becoming the rookie’s mentor had fallen to him.

He liked the younger mech, but Primus sometimes he missed simply working with just Prowl. A silent partner as one would say.

Sideburn smiled at his mentor as he held up a small datachip for all to see. His doorwings practically vibrated on his back.

Barricade pointed to something on screen and clapped the other officer on the back. “Get to it.” He pushed of the edge of the desk and stood rigidly. He glared at Sideburn out of crimson optics, his mouth set in a stern line but his doorwings showing interest. “Just tell me it’s related to this case. And remember you are in the middle of the office space.”

“I don’t see why that matters.” The young enforcer’s armour fluffed as he laid the chip into his mentor’s outstretched hand, his optics bright and grin thoroughly cutting his lean face in two. “It’s the security feed from the YDC.”

Barricade frowned at the chip, his hand closing protectively over it. “Where did you get it?”

“I got some skills.” Sideburn shrugged with a twinkle in his optics, but his field teeked of pride at his accomplishment. His smile lost some of its shine as he motioned to the chip. “Unfortunately, it’s not of the Crisis Unit itself, but of the hallways outside of it.” He leaned past Barricade and flared his doorwings towards the detective’s office. “Should we inform him? I don’t know if Chief maybe want to know too?”

Barricade shook his helm. “No, Chief’s left the investigation in Prowl’s capable hands.” Movement to his side caught his attention and he turned his helm to watch Jazz carrying two mugs of steaming energon.

“Hey, Jazz.”

The mech paused. “What’s up, Cade?”

“Tell Prowl we’ve got some footage. We’ll set it up and wait for you in the conference room.” He turned and motioned Sideburn to follow him, then halted. “Oh and Jazz, Proteus called _again._ You might want to rescue your partner.”

“Frag that mech is annoying.” Jazz muttered as he resumed his trek towards Prowl’s office. “Thanks, I’ll get rid of him.”

 

* * *

 

“So listen carefully, Lieutenant Prowl. I expect you to apprehend Smokescreen by this afternoon at the latest. And I don’t want any excuses!”

Prowl busied himself reviewing evidence and making his own private notes on this case in addition to other cases on his desk while he listened to the _third_ call since that morning. His tolerance ratio for Proteus’s rantings were nearing their full capacity, but the prosecutor had crossed the line with that last statement.

“Proteus, I have listened carefully, since your first call this morning,” Prowl stated clearly and in measured tones. “You will remember that you were the one who this morning spoke to the press and made severe allegations and unjustified comments to the media without our input on the matter. I am the lead detective on this case, not you. I will collect evidence and based on the evidence accusations will be made. Not you. Perhaps if you train your mouth you would not appear to be such a fool. Now, I have work to do. Please do not bother calling again. We will send you an update.”

Prowl clicked the ‘off’ button and pressed two fingers against his temple. Proteus would test Primus himself with patience.

“Feel better?”

The familiar voice startled him and he glanced up to see Jazz lounging in the door holding two cups of steaming energon. The silver mech smiled, helping himself to his favourite, creaky chair as he placed Prowl’s energon in front of him.

“Thank you.” Prowl took the cup and sipped, the warm liquid soothing. He released a vent slowly.

“You’re welcome. So don’t tell me that was Proteus _again._ ” Jazz crossed his legs, the one pede bouncing rhythmically. His expression had the ‘shall-I-shoot-him-for-you’ look that all partners at some point gave.

“Yes.” A smile tugged at Prowl’s lips in appreciation, not only for the energon. “My assumption is that he is beginning to panic after Smokescreen’s radio debut.” Prowl dismissed Proteus with a single doorwing flick. “Do you have any news for me, preferably good?”

“Well, not sure if it’s good or not, but sure as pit is interesting.” Jazz shrugged and took a sip of his energon, smacking his lips together at the rich flavour. “First of all, we haven’t been able to contact Smokey’s guardian – a mech designated Natron. Mech ain’t answering his comms and we even sent a unit past his home. Nothing.”

Prowl leaned forward and rested his chin against his steepled fingers, a thoughtful frown pulling the corners of his lips down. “Do you think he assisted Smokescreen?”

Jazz grimaced. “Not likely. As far as this report goes there really ain’t a lot of flow between the two of ‘em.”

Prowl’s optics sharpened. “Explain.”

 Jazz removed the datapad from his subspace, and switched it on. “Right-o, this here all comes from his YDC files. Kinda a sad story, really, but then again most younglings in those places have sad stories. For the first few vorns of his life he lived with only his sire. It appears that his carrier had died shortly after his emergence due to complications. Luckily for him the two weren’t bonded and sire – mech named Freezon – survived to raise Smokescreen. Appears that his sire was a brilliant lawyer with more than enough shanix, but not much of an estate planner. Mech died in an accident two vorns ago. With no provision for who was gonna take care of Smokescreen, custody went to Uncle Natron. Apparently Natron was under the impression that the trust would foot the growing mechling’s bill, but nope. Not a single shanix was released from the trust for this purpose. Needless to say, Uncle Natron wasn’t a happy mech and took it out on Smokescreen.” He glanced at Prowl over the datapad.

“So not only did Natron have full custody, but he had no additional funds to support the youngling.” Prowl made a note on his case file.

“Yep. Seems like he didn’t have enough to support the both of ‘em. Social services were out to the house at least half a dozen times over the vorn Smokes was there, mostly because of the neighbour’s complaints, but nothing came of it. Finally, about a vorn ago Smokescreen stole Natron’s shuttle, claiming it was the only way to get away. Natron pressed charges, telling the court, ‘a little time in prison never hurt anyone’.” Jazz dropped the datapad on the desk and shook his helm. His visor was bright.

“Upstanding citizen.” Prowl remarked with a matching glower.

Jazz barked an angry laugh. “Not at all.” He replied, dead serious. “Natron knows what he’s talking about, having logged thirteen vorns at Garrus-6. In the fifteen vorns he’s been in our lovely community, he’s had eight intoxicated driving offences, three disorderly conducts, and an assault-and-battery charge. He’s also logged about a million bar fights. Mech’s a real piece of work.”

Prowl stared at him and blinked slowly. “Was Social Services aware of these charges when they assigned the youngling to his custody?”

Jazz drew a deep vent and ran a hand over his face, shaking his helm gently. “Yeah, but to be honest, there really wasn’t much of a choice. It was either Natron or foster care.”

“After hearing his file, I believe foster care would have been the better choice.” Prowl narrowed his optics.

“It ain’t that simple Prowl, and you know it. First rule – if there’s family, the mechling goes there. Stability and all that slag. There are others that don’t have the family that need placin’. Not that it makes it right, but being from the system, I know what I’m talkin’ about.” Jazz released his vent and shrugged.

Prowl clamped down on the urge to scowl. “And there was the first time the system failed Smokescreen.” Had the system not failed Smokescreen, then their victim would be alive, and Smokescreen would have retained his innocence.

“Won’t be the last though. But speaking of systems, got some more news.”

Prowl was pulled from his reverie and raised his chin at Jazz in question.

“Seems like we’ve got some footage.”

“Footage?” Prowl canted his doorwings. “I was under the impression the cameras were down.”

“I had the same idea, but Cade and Burn just told me they had it. They’re setting it up in the conference room as we speak. Wanna go have a look?”

“Yes.”

Both mechs rose together, Prowl following Jazz as they headed towards the conference room. Discreet glances were cast their way by the enforcers working the case. They entered the conference room opposite Prowl’s office and closed the door.

“Prowl.” Barricade greeted him as he pointed towards the wide, wall-mounted screen. “We got some footage.”

“We were told the cameras were down.” Prowl repeated as he nodded at both Barricade and Sideburn, walking around the long table.

“In the Crisis Unit they were, but we were able to catch Master Smokescreen on his way out.” Sideburn nearly vibrated with pent-up excitement.

Prowl smiled at him. The rookie was keen to earn his stripes in the enforcers. He turned his attention back to the screen, aware of Jazz coming to a stand next to him. The footage was cued and ready to play. In the fuzzy fish-eye image that characterised security cameras, Prowl watched an empty room he recognised from the orn before as the in-processing area. From the upper right-hand corner of the screen, a youngling appeared, orange nanites dull and doorwings perked high and trembling wildly. Prowl’s armour pulled tight and his spark clenched. The mechling looked as frightened as he looked frighteningly; his movements simultaneously quick and hesitant while his frame was smeared with the dark liquid of his victim’s energon.

“Stop.” Prowl said as he pushed his personal feelings to the back. This was a perpetrator. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say killer, but he had to remember this youngling had broken the law and continued to do so. He studied the still, taking in the markings on the frame and the splattered energon. He tried to ignore the face. “Smokescreen said he stabbed the supervisor as the mech lay. Would you agree the splattering patterns depict this?”

Jazz pursed his lips, his field tight to his frame as he studied the picture with razor-sharp intensity. “We’ll get it down to forensics, but looks about right to me.”

Prowl motioned with a nod and Barricade resumed playing the video.

The youngling darted straight for the camera, looking over alternate shoulders with every step. He was visibly startled when he noticed the camera. He turned completely around, doorwings splayed wide as he presumably checked to see if anyone was following him.

When Smokescreen turned back to the camera, Prowl’s spark froze for just the briefest of moments. The expression in Smokescreen’s optics was one he had seen before.

“Stop the recording!”  The command was louder than he had intended and Jazz’s helm snapped round to him. Barricade paused the footage, doorwings high as he narrowed his optics at Prowl.

In the frozen image, Smokescreen’s optics cried with terror and uncertainty. Beyond the energon and the fear was the face of a young mechling begging for help.

Prowl had seen that very expression dozens of times from the face of another insecure, introverted second-frame who’d once depended on him for so much, but was now silent for ever.

“Prowler, you ok? You look like you’ve seen an avatar.” Jazz’s hand gently touching his arm broke the spell and he drew a deep vent, turning his helm from the screen.

“I…” Prowl leaned back against the table for support, his chest tight. He glanced back at the screen. “He has Dash’s optics.” He whispered.

Prowl felt another hand on his shoulder and turned to Barricade. His optics were tight and mouth firm, but his field was flooded with sympathy and understanding. “You do not need to watch this. We can – ”

“No.” Prowl stated firmly as he shook his helm. He squared his shoulders. “I cannot keep reacting this way, Barricade. It is under control now, please proceed.”

“What’s under control?” Jazz asked, his visor darkened as he glanced between Barricade and Prowl. Sideburn stood to the back, as still as a statue.

Barricade grunted and kept a careful optic on Prowl as he restarted the scene. His optics briefly caught Jazz’s and he gave the mech a slight nod.

There was a quick editing blip on the screen, and then they were looking at the exterior of the exit. In the background was a door, which opened slowly to reveal the little anti-hero of the little tv drama as he slipped out of the door, relocked it, and then sprinted out of the picture. One more blip, and the screen went blank. No one said anything while Barricade thumbed the power button and killed the screen. “Well, lieutenant, what do you think?”

Prowl drew calming vent. He wished he hadn’t watched it. The footage will make his objectivity on this case difficult. “I do not believe it holds new information, although the energon splatters on his frame can be analysed by the forensic teams and it can confirm a part of his story.”

Jazz stood closer to him, the warmth of his frame comforting. “Does the press have this?” He asked Barricade as he gently probed Prowl’s field, wanting to know if the mech was ok but at the same time making clear his confusion.

“What, are you kidding?” Sideburn interrupted as he folded his arms over his chassis. “Proteus’s cyberhounds were all over this. He’s got a movie of an energon-soaked murderer. My guess is they got it to the media even before we got it.”

Prowl nodded, answering Jazz’s unasked question with reassurance from his own field. He was alright. With the briefest movement of his doorwings he geared back into professional mode. No matter the resemblance, Dash and Smokescreen were two completely different mechlings. He could not allow himself to become emotionally involved. “I want you to check up on the comm link records to the radio show, Sideburn. Every time a call is made to an 0100 line it has to be logged into a datanet. I want you to tap into that net and find out where the call originated from.

Sideburn moaned. He had done similar searches before, most recently for a fraud case, only to be inundated with thousands of numbers, each of which had to be checked.

“We’ll need a court order for that, wouldn’t we?” Sideburn stalled. Primus he hated the dreary work. “We won’t stand a chance against a radio station – free speech you know.”

“Get them to volunteer the information.” Barricade smiled wickedly as he swung to Jazz. “Don’t you know The Glitch?”

“Uhhh….yeah but not on that kinda note.” Jazz scratched the side of his olfactory as he stepped back to give Prowl room to rise. “Besides, if I call up he’s just gonna fry me. Won’t even be able to use the ‘invaluable service to your community’ card.”

“I do not care what you do as long as the information is gathered.” Prowl raised himself to his full height and flexed his doorwings. “We have work to do and so far we have not been doing it. We do not even have an inkling where Smokescreen went, and that radio station is at present our only lead. So do not tell me what is probable or improbable unless we have at least tried. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Sideburn said as the other two nodded. The trio watched Prowl leave the room.

“Dash?” Jazz turned to Barricade and folded his arms. “I’ve heard that designation a couple of times, but never anything more.”

Barricade studied the door through which Prowl had left, doorwings set neutrally. He turned crimson optics on Jazz, appraising the mech.

Jazz kept still as he waited for Barricade to decide whether or not to trust him with this. Whatever it was, Jazz knew it to be a very personal matter, and he did not want to compromise the relationship between Barricade and Prowl. Yet Prowl was his partner and friend, and if he was honest he had a vested interest in the mech’s well-being. Not knowing what was gnawing at his partner was putting him on the back pede so to speak.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea if you took him out for lunch or dinner and ask him about it.” Barricade eventually said as he ambled around the table, his doorwings relaxed as he motioned Sideburn forward. “Sideburn, you better get to those records. There’s a pitload of work there and seeing as Jazz won’t help….” He threw a smirk in Jazz’s direction before he disappeared through the door.

The young rookie turned pleading optics to Jazz, but the mech simply threw his hands in the air.

“Nope, don’t even ask me to call Blaster. You’ve been assigned, you find a way to do it.” And with that Jazz slunk out the door, ignoring the colourful swearing of the rookie.

 

* * *

 

Rookie Enforcer Sideburn of the Crystal County Police Department was determined to be noticed. After ten vorns of doing menial jobs as a rookie enforcer under Barricade, he was more than ready to try some real enforcer work. What he needed was an opportunity to shine on the job – and that had come in the form of Prowl dishing out the enormous and drudging job of filtering through the records of the radio station.

All he needed to do was to find just the right piece of evidence, or uncover just the right lead to break this big case. He would do the job quickly and efficiently, and play a pivotal role in what was turning out to be a very high-profile case. Barricade – and Prowl – would be proud of him.

So what was the most obvious place to start? The comms company of course. After a few tries, Sideburn was finally put through to the Vice-President of Customer Services. A big title for an annoying mech. The most Sideburn got out of him was a ‘I’m sorry, but without a court order, he could not authorise the dissemination of comm records without the customer’s permission.’ Sigh. He knew that. He had told his superiors as much. And court orders took forever and he did not have time to go through that route. Smokescreen was already ahead of the pack and he was just increasing that lead. No, he needed to find a more direct way. He needed a short-cut to the info.

He smiled. Of course….if Jazz wasn’t in the mood to phone his friend, well, Sideburn had no qualms doing just that. He’d go directly to Blaster and his small production team. He was sure he could talk the owners of that precious information into releasing the records to his custody. He just had to be persuasive enough. He settled on the forceful approach. If he leaned on those radio mecha hard enough, they’d cave. Helping to solve a murder case was the kind of publicity anyone would welcome.

 

* * *

 

 

Since the start of his career as a DJ, Blaster had interviewed thousands of mechs, ranging from the famous to the infamous, but never had he received such a response as the one generated by his conversation with Smokescreen. On the other side of the glass, in a smaller, darker office, Tailspin was going crazy, coaxing callers who had been on hold for over a joor to hang in there, while at the same time screening the few additional callers who had been able to get through.

What most callers didn’t realise was that the talk-radio business was not the first come, first served. Once they made it past Tailspin, he entered their designations, their cities of origin, and what they wanted to talk about into a terminal which simultaneously displayed on a screen on Blaster’s side. He then made the final decision as to which callers were spoken to first.

A tap on his shoulder startled Tailspin and he whipped his helm around to see one of the juniors standing next to him, holding a datapad out. Annoyed at the interruption, Tailspin vented in irritation, casting the poor messenger a foul look. “What is it?” He asked as he divided his attention between his comm and the junior. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a show?”

The young mech nervously cleared his vocaliser, pushing the datapad forward a bit more. “It’s the enforcers, sir. They want to talk to you on hot line 85. Says it’s important.”

With an irritated click of his glossa, Tailspin waived the younger mech away. “Tell them I’ll call them back when we’re done. Idiots.”

The mech behind him cleared his vocaliser, scratching his olfactory. “Well, uhm, sir, you see I already tried that and he, well, he said he could bring us up on obstruction of justice charges.”

Tailspin looked like he had just been slapped.  He opened and closed his mouth, glancing forlornly at his blinking, beeping screen. “Argh! This is exactly what I don’t need right now! Fine. I’ll take it.” He jabbed at the number ‘85’, fighting the angry snarl that played at his mouth. Blaster owed him big time for this!

In the most calm and professional voice he could muster, he answered, “This is Tailspin, how may I help you?” His tone sounded anything but helpful.

By the time Enforcer Sideburn was done with Tailspin, the producer could hardly speak, he was so befuddled.

Now, as Sideburn sat on hold, he found himself regretting some of the things he had said. In the spirit of the moment, he had let Tailspin to believe that there was imminent danger of jail if he did not cooperate. He had no such power, of course, but he supposed that really didn’t matter too much. What Cybertronians knew – or rather didn’t know about their rights were amazing.

 

* * *

 

On his side of the glass, Blaster sipped at his can of Maccadam’s Oil, and took another caller, but he was distracted by Tailspin’s voice in his personal comm telling him to go to a commercial asap. Blaster shot him a dangerous glare and shook his helm. He was busy slag it.

Tailspin scowled back and mouthed something unintelligible through the glass. The he held up a portable comm.

Blaster rolled his optics and finished with the caller, then told his attentive audience they’re due a commercial. As soon as the commercial started, he wheeled back round to Tailspin, arms folded over his chassis and mouth set. “This better be good slag. You know I don’t take hotline calls during the show.”

“I’ve got an enforcer on the line who wants to use our caller records to trace down Smokescreen’s calls.” Tailspin shot back, armour flaring and clamping.

Blaster evaluated his options in an instant. If word got out that authorities could trace calls through a radio talk show – _his_ radio talk show to be specific – every well-placed source he had established over the vorns would instantly evaporate. He narrowed his optics at his producer, seeing his distress. Fragging pitspawn. “Tell him our records are off limits,” he sneered, “We’re talking some serious right infringement issues here.”

“Well, I already told him that.” The other mech replied quickly and shrugged, but his optics were still worried. “He says he’s going to bring us up on obstruction of justice charges if we don’t cooperate.”   

“That so, huh?” He raised his optic ridges. Well, guess there were some perks having an enforcer as an ex – you learn some legal stuff. “Well, why don’t you place him on the air when we come outa commercials.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.” Tailspin pleaded.

“Course not.” Blaster winked as he gave his worried-looking producer a toothy grin. “What’s his designation?”

“Officer Sideburn, from Cyrstal County.”

The commercial ended ten clicks later. At his cue from Tailspin, Blaster opened his microphone. “Welcome back, my lovable Cybertron, to the most unusual show this side of the galaxy. The interest spawned by my little conversation with Smokescreen just continues to grow. On the line with us now is an enforcer from Crystal County, Praxus, who’s threatening to send my staff and me to prison. Officer Sideburn, you’re on the air my mech.” He dabbed his blinking light with unholy satisfaction.

For a long moment not a sound emanated from the other end. Finally, a tentative, young voice said “hello.”

Blaster grinned. “Officer Sideburn? I understand you want to throw me in jail. What gives?”

The voice stammered on the other end. “Am…am I…on radio?”

“You called a radio station, officer. That generally gets you on the radio.” Blaster drawled.

“I’m sorry, but I think we need to discuss this in private.”

Blaster’s voice suddenly lost its playfulness as he sat straight in his chair. “According to my producer, you want to use this programme’s caller records to find out where Smokescreen was calling from, correct?”

“Well, uh, I suppose so.” He sounded deliciously evasive.

“I’ll interpret that as a yes. And now I’ll give you an answer that needs no interpretation. If I were to allow you access to our records, the effect would be to inhibit free speech. And free speech is protected by our Constitution. Got that?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he continued. “And did you also tell my producer that if we did not let you rummage through our records you would charge us with obstruction of justice?”

“I think…I might have mentioned something like – ”

“Let me get this straight, Officer Sideburn. You are going to charge me with a crime for exercising my Constitutional rights. Or maybe you were just bluffing, trying to use scare tactics so you don’t have to got through proper channels mandated by law? Or maybe you’re incompetent and don’t know the right procedures? How am I doing so far?”

Slag. They didn’t call him the Glitch for nothing. Without even completing a sentence, Sideburn had not only made a fool of himself but of his entire department – in front of millions of Cybertronians. A breem ago this had seemed like a good idea – now he could see his career unravelling before his optics. Without knowing what else to do, he hung up.

Blaster heard the click and smiled slyly at Tailspin. “Hmm, sounds like the mech hung up.” He chuckled as he rubbed his chin, leaning towards the mike. “Well, disconnecting’s not really an answer I guess. But I certainly think there’s a message there, don’t you?”

Tailspin simply shook his helm, wondering in all the galaxy what troubles Blaster had assigned him to now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens as new players are introduced....

Pointer liked to think of himself as the Hit Mech. Being from Yuss – a quint little province that was often overlooked because of its issues, or as a rather prominent politician had called it a ‘slaghole’ – had given him anything but a threatening countenance. Indeed, he was spindly, lightweight and completely the opposite of ‘bad-aft’ like the Cybetronian film industry had most mechas believe hit mechs to be like.

And therein lay both his strength and weakness. No one expected him to be capable of the Job. Because of his unassuming looks, his sense of humour and his sparkling blue optics, he was often mistaken as trustworthy by his poor victims and their families. The downside – these very qualities caused him to struggle for respect from his cohorts that his line of work deserved.

So he had learned to garner this respect through sheer brutality. No one was more loyal to Master Scourge; no one more efficient in carrying out his orders. Others had assumed they could push him around. They had tried and failed. They never made the mistake twice. Boldly decisive and seemingly fearless, Pointer had slowly but surely earned the respect of the only mech that mattered – Mr Scourge. And thus each job was a new test of his resourcefulness. A single misstep could easily cost him everything he had struggled so long and hard to build. Including his life.

With each brutally successful job, his notorious reputation had grown and sent shockwaves through the underworld. It filled him pride to know that his very designation sent hardened criminals into withering balls of fear. And so as his reputation grew, so his enemies grew, but most importantly Master Scourge’s appreciation grew.

Yet as appreciative as Master Scourge was of a job well done, he would not tolerate a frag-up. Pointer often herd his boss say that every mech deserved a second chance, but that no one deserved a third. On this orn, Pointer was grateful for that second chance. He needed it. Only three joors prior, Pointer had seen master Scourge trembling with rage. Humiliated was the word he used. Pointer had humiliated Scourge’s entire organization. He had screwed up a hit on a youngling in a cage! Once word leaked out onto the streets, mecha would start laughing at them! And laughter meant disrespect, which led to challenges against Scourge’s turf, and that would result in violence, and violence was bad for business. Pointer had wondered at that stage since when Scrounge had hated violence, but he figured it must have been on that jealousy-ridden Lockdown’s advice. He had remained silent until his boss had grabbed his chin. _‘It is only because of your loyalty and history that I am granting you this second chance. By the time this is over, one of you will be dead!”_

And so as he sped through the Praxian countryside en route to his rendezvous, Pointer could barely control his rage. His black paint gleamed in the hot afternoon sun as he pushed his engine to the limit. He needed to burn some energy. This whole business with Natron and his nephew was so out of control that Pointer was more than ready to kill. He never should have listened to Natron’s plan in the first place, let alone agreed to it. But slag it all to the Pit it had been so simple! The elements were all there – an inside job, big, motivated mech; little, frightened youngling; small room. How the frag had they managed to screw that up so badly? Well, he’d know in fifteen breems. And by the spawn of Unicron that was the last move that little mech was going to make. From now on, this operation was in Pointer’s hands. He would of course extract his gallon of energon. Natron needed to learn not to make promises he couldn’t keep. The good news for Natron was that he would live to see morning, because it would take at least that long to formulate a proper plan.

His speed increased as thunderclouds gathered on the distant horizon.

 

* * *

 

Smokescreen licked the last of the special pizza sauce from his fingers an slumped back into the plush sofa feeling thoroughly satisfied. Where a family-size frozen pizza – and not just any pizza, a Chromia Pizza© - had once peacefully resided on a cardboard tray, there were now only a few iron shavings and a single, orphaned caesium salami. Smokescreen eyed the round little leftover and then quickly dispatched it with one bite.

After hanging up on The Glitch, he had lain on the berth listening for the next hour as callers either branded him innocent and cute – _what the Pit?_ – or guilty and vicious. There seemed to be no middle ground. Not that he could expect any – they were full frames anyway. After a joor his tanks had sent him on a search and destroy mission to the large kitchen. After rummaging through the kitchen, he had finally found a frozen pizza in the fridge. He had smiled as he saw the blue femme on the box. His sire had always gotten this brand for them. Without any remorse he had popped it into the oven and heated it up until the iron shavings had formed a nice, bubbling layer. That’s when he had settled in front of the large entertainment centre in the lounge.

Drawing a deep vent, he picked up the remote and flicked through the channels. When had TV become so boring? None of his favourite shows were on, and so finally he settled on a rerun of the Autobot: Exodus.

At the bottom-of-the-joor break, Smokescreen saw his face again on the screen – from a fuzzy video picture he hadn’t seen before – with a teaser voiceover for the latest on the Smokescreen case at _News at Noon_. Smokescreen grinned, his doorwings flapping lazily against the backrest. Being famous was getting to be pretty cool. He wasn’t scared anymore. Yeah sure, he had had that odd bout on the radio, but he’d gotten over it pretty quick. Besides – he still had friends. Somewhere. There was Bumblebee, his best friends and youngling scout partner, and Devcon, who had shared every classroom with Smokescreen since their first vorn together in the youngling centre. They’d undoubtedly be listening to all of this and of course, he had to be super careful about his reputation. They needed to know he was still a good mech – not cute; good – and that yeah he did some bad things but he wasn’t a murderer.

He thought back to a story he had heard their teacher read them. He and Devcon had later watched the movie at his place, and they had often role-played the story. It was about a youngling designated Finn. When Finn was about his age, he had outsmarted everyone including the enforcers. He went on to help mechs along his way, living an adventure. And that was exactly what Smokescreen was going to do as well: he was going to live and adventure, moving from house to house and sometimes camping out in the plains. Problem was, Finn had Trion to talk to and help figure out a plan. Even when Dev had played with him, they still sometimes needed to ask his sire for help. As much as he hated to admit it, full frames simply knew more about certain things than he did. Like coming up with a good plan. Finn and Trion had a plan – they travelled at night, staying close to the river. They built floats to help them navigate the river, hunted mechanimals – thank Primus he didn’t have to do that! – and travelled all the way to the Southlands where they could start a new life.

He wiped a sticky hand over his mouth. _What am I going to do?_ He shuttered his optics and thought about everything he knew – the newsmecha had reported that the enforcers had search parties and roadblocks, all looking for him. The reporter had even said that there weren’t any leads on his whereabouts, and that it left the enforcers frustrated. So as far as he was concerned, he’d made a clean getaway. So that gave him a headstart, but Pit, unlike Finn who lived in what mechs called the Barbarian Age, he lived in the Golden Age. The enforcers here had a host of tech they could use, add to that he had to worry about everybody seeing his picture on the news and thinking him some crazy murderer.

But on the other hand, Finn didn’t have access to those things either, did he? He narrowed his optics at the telly, not really focusing on it. In one morning he had been able to change a lot of mecha’s processors about him, just be cause he talked on the radio. If he could change processors with a single call, what could he do with more calls? Perhaps he could convince mechs he was innocent and that it really was only self-defense? He was already the lead story on all the news shows, but the telly was still portraying him as the bad guy. If he could perhaps call them too and persuade them that he was a decent guy who’d gotten into trouble, then maybe they’d turn off the heat? Besides, it worked like all those commercials didn’t it? If mechs could accept what a make-believe psychic said, they could believe his story? His was truth, anyway.

A sudden thought froze him. What if the enforcers were able to trace his call? Blaster said they couldn’t, but what if the mech lied? Small beads of perspiration clung to his helm as he carefully stood. What if they were outside right now, waiting to storm him? Maybe they had some rules about breaking down doors of fancy houses like this. Swallowing, he pulled his doorwings close and tiptoed to the window. Pressing against the wall, he lifted a small part of the curtain to peak outside.

His optics swept the yard then moved to the street. He released the vent he was holding when there wasn’t as much as a cybercat lounging in the sun. The younglings he had seen the evening before were probably at some summer orn camp. He dropped the curtain and paced the room. He had to think. He had to find a way to get to the Southlands. Maybe Tarn or Kaon, or someplace like that. He pressed his hands against his temples. “Just think, Smokey. You can do this.”

If he could just transform and drive it would be so much easier.

He stopped and dropped his hands.

Drive.

_Of course!_

That’s how he got into this mess in the first place, so maybe that’s how he’d get out of it. Provided of course there was a shuttle in this place. Oh he knew the owners had to have one – being this wealthy and with a youngling his age it was a given. The only question was if they were currently using it.

He padded over to the garage, and with a thick lump in his throat, opened the door. The cool, stale interior air hitting his warm frame came as a relief as he walked into the dark room. Light sensors picked up on the movement and soon the room lit up one by one with bright, LED lights.

Smokescreen’s face broke out in a grin and he punched the air. “Yes!” Seems like luck was finally on his side.

There in the back stood one of the new shuttle models – a MCLRN MP4-12C. Built for both safety and speed, it was a luxury transport that mostly the upper classes could afford. A stab of guilt shot through Smokescreen. He’d have to be very careful not to scratch it. He walked around the shuttle, tracing his fingers along the soft beige coloured panels. He reached the operator’s door and opened it. The shuttle automatically onlined as he got in and Smokescreen prayed that the owners hadn’t used some kind of encoding on it.

He waited nervously for all the lights to stop blinking until only one remained – ‘Adjust seat’.

Ok, well, so far so good. Smokescreen pressed the affirmative and the seat adjusted to the point where he could just reach all of the controls. His grin grew as he ran his hands over the steering wheel, over the levers, the switches. In his processor he was already navigating this beauty through the turns in the highways he was soon going to travel.

He leaned back in the seat, doorwings draped contentedly over the seat. This could work. It had to work. As he continued playing the scenario over and over in his processor, his confidence grew by the click. He had beaten the odds so far, and luck seemed to side with him. Maybe, just maybe his sire was looking out for him after all.

He would do this. Perhaps he didn’t need a Trion to come up with a plan.

He had come up with one on his own.

 

* * *

 

 

With lightning arching across the sky overhead the old Rust Bucket, the decrepit bar looked more like a deserted house of horrors than a way-side tavern. And yet it was far from deserted, for it was a well-known meeting place for the less savoury characters in the area, holding their many secrets and schemes like an uncrackable vault. Even the enforcers tended to avoid the joint, finding it inhospitable and downright antagonistic.

Inside, the humid air and stench of spilled energon added to the depressing nature of the dark, windowless interior. Natron sat at a table in the far corner, beads of condensation dotting his helm and frame. He ordered another beer from the large brute behind the bar. _Come on, Natron, they can’t kill you. No yet. Without you, they’ve got nothing._

Hungover from the evening before, he had been repeating that phrase ever since Pointer had ended his call to him that morning.  At one stage he had even believed it, but now as he sat waiting for Pointer, that small hope was dwindling fast. He fought the urge to simply get up and run. Maybe to Kaon. Maybe to Kolkular. But even as the thoughts clawed their way to the top of his processor he knew it was a useless lie. It had become too late for him the instant he had turned to Pointer and Master Scourge for help.

He ran his pained optics over the patrons of the establishment. In addition to himself and the bartender, there were three other mechs in the tavern. Their conversations seemed to ebb and flow between quiet and loud, sad and animated, but always punctuated with the static drawl of overcharged mecha.

The darkness was suddenly pierced by the opening of the door. The other patrons looked up just long enough to look away. No one said anything as Pointer moved straight towards Natron without any hesitation.

The mech either knew exactly where he sat, or his optics adjusted to the dark faster than normal. Not that it mattered.

Instead of taking a seat opposite Natron, Pointer took a seat next to him, barely centimeters away. It was more typical for a date than a business meeting, and Natron had the sick feeling in the pit of his tank that he was going to experience just how intimate business with Pointer could be. In Pointer’s company, the brute of a bartender moved almost gracefully, setting before him a cube of bright pink energon – _midgrade?_ – without even being asked.

For a long moment, Pointer stared at Natron, forcing the mech to break optic contact twice. At length, in a voice with an odd quality to it that was both calm and cold with controlled anger, he broke the silence. “You broke your promise to me.” The effect was frightening. “You promised me that you could handle this, but you screwed up.”

Natron swallowed, mouth dry and vocaliser clicking. He had come to this meeting armed with excuses and explanations for Scuttle’s failure. But like vapor before the suns everything he had to say had simply disappeared. So instead, he just stared at his second empty cube of engex, spinning it slowly with his numb fingers.

“Look at me, Natron.” Pointer commanded softly.

Natron lifted his wary optics.

“I spoke with Master Scourge this morning, Natron, and he wasn’t pleased. And do you know who he wasn’t pleased with?”

Natron shook his helm, dropping his optics again.

Pointer slammed the table with his fist, making the empty cubes jump nearly as high as Natron. “Answer me!”

Drawing a deep vent and ignoring the big droplets of condensation running down his helm, Natron stammered, “M-me, I g-guess.”

Pointer leaned forward, close enough for Natron to smell the polish that clung to his gleaming black finish. “No, Natron. No he wasn’t.” He lifted a finger and gently lifted Natron’s chin towards him, his voice once more menacingly smooth. “He was angry at me. _Me._ He was mad at me because I had been stupid enough to believe that you could kill a helpless youngster in a concrete _box_!”

His voice boomed the last word. Natron cringed and glanced around the room at the other tenants. None of them moved, though certainly they were all paying rapt attention. It didn’t seem to bother Pointer one bit.

“Look, Pointer,” Natron’s voice cracked and he reset his vocaliser. “I can explain.”

“Mute it!” Pointer released his chin and sat back. “I’ll take an educated guess. You weren’t even there last night. You were drowning yourself in a bottle of highgrade, weren’t you?

Natron looked away.

“Weren’t you?”

Natron nodded again, then remembered to answer. “Y-yes.”

Pointer drew a noisy vent and released it, flapping one hand on the dirty table. “So that’s the thanks I get from you? I go to bat for you, keep your dead frame from being found in some shabby alley, and the best you can do is subcontract your work to some incompetent prison guard all so that you can drown yourself in highgrade. Does that seem fair to you, Natron?”

Natron shook his helm, “No”. What he didn’t say was something that they both knew – Pointer didn’t go to bat for him because he was a nice guy. He was in it to protect the extra 500’000 credits he stood to make out of the deal unbeknown to the angry Master Scourge.

“Well, Natron seems like you and I agree on this together. I also don’t think it’s fair. But guess what, I went to bat for you again. Master Scourge’s answer was for me to cut out your spark and let you watch how it faded.”

Natron shut his optics as his spark sped up to twice its normal rate. He had no doubt that Pointer was merrily stating the facts as Scourge had said it. His hands trembled as he waited, because he knew that there was a cost to that mercy.

“See I told Master Scourge that there was too much money in play just to kill you without at least another try. And you know what he told me?”

Natron was looking away again. Pointer grabbed his chin in a vice-like grip and yanked his helm round so they were face to face, mere centimetres separating them. His cold, blue optics stared into Natron.

“He told me that he didn’t care about the shanix. Imagine that. Imagine reaching a point in your life where two million credits didn’t mean a thing to you anymore. No, he told me that the honour and dignity of his designation were at stake now, and that the only thing that mattered was killing you.”

Natron’s energon froze in his tubes as his world ground to a halt. Nausea rose in his throat and he had the distinct thought that he might purge all over Pointer.

Pointer smirked and flung Natron’s face back. He leaned back into the creaky vinyl of the chair. “But I managed to talk him out of it. I talked him into one more try. So here’s where we stand, Natron. If your nephew dies, and we get our money, you live. Otherwise, you’re dead.”

Natron saw the faintest glimmer of hope and he leaned forward, optics bright. “Pointer, give me one more chance— ” He stopped as thunder cracked loudly, causing the building to tremble.

Pointer used the interruption to his advantage. “Do you take me for a fool? I’ll take care of whacking the bitlit. Your job is to wait for the papers from your lawyer and transfer the shanix.”

In the long pause that followed Natron knew there was more to come, but he chose to wait until Pointer spoke.

Eventually Pointer took a large gulp of his midgrade, and after placing it back on the table turned to Natron. “We have one more matter to discuss, two actually. First, you’re a minority shareholder in your inheritance now. Master Scourge’s share went up to three million. Plus, I’m gonna add another three hundred thousand to let you live. Add to that another five hundred thousand that you already ow me, and that makes your total bill about three point eight million. What’s let is yours.”

An objection formed but it quickly died on Natron’s glossa. The price of staying alive had suddenly become very steep, and yet this wasn’t negotiable. He was a survivor. First and foremost. He swallowed loudly. “I can live with that.” He cringed at the unintended pun, but Pointer merrily laughed.

“I bet you can. Now, that leaves us with only one more bit of business.”

Wrongly sensing that the worst was over, Natron allowed himself to relax and leaned forward. Distantly he was aware of the storm picking up pace outside – he could already hear the first sheets of rain pounding against the dodgy walls. He wasn’t looking forward to driving back in that.

“You see, Natron, I too have a reputation to uphold. I can’t afford to simply let you walk out of here unharmed. What would that say about me?” He smoothly and slowly withdrew a blaster from subspace, thumbed the charge and placed the muzzle an inch from Natron’s left optic. In one smooth motion he stood and pushed the chair back with his pede, giving himself more room to move around. Once standing, he shifting his blaster from the right hand to the left, the aim not once wobbling or going skew. It attested to his ease and skill with the weapon. “Are you right-dominant or left?”

“L-left.”  Natron stammered in a whimpering tone that left a deprecatory sneer on Pointer’s lips.

Pointer pulled a datapad from his subspace along with a quill. Slowly, he pushed it over to Natron. “Please sign the new contract with Master Scourge.”

Natrons optics dropped to the datapad and he licked his lips. Turning his optics just so he looked straight into the barrel of the blaster. He dropped his optics again to the datapad and with shaking hands drew it closer. He reached for the quill with his left hand, then froze. Tears burned his optics.

“I’m s-sorry, Pointer.” He pleaded, “I made a mistake. Actually, I’m r-right-dominant.”

Pointer’s face remained stony. “Sign the datapad, then place your right hand on the table.” As he spoke something changed in the depths of his optics. Even in the darkness of the foul-smelling tavern he could see it – it was a chilling, calculating coldness.

Shaking like a delicate crystal in autumn winds, Natron picked up the quill and scribbled his signature. He placed the quill on the table, but kept his hand in a tight fist just above the datapad. He looked at Pointer, helm shaking from side to side not in defiance, but in a pitiful plea for mercy.

“Do not let me ask you again.” Pointer kept his cold, pitiless gaze on Natron. “Remember, this is not about the shanix. That is only to hurt you and we owe you a lot of pain. This is about the honour and dignity of my designation, and in turn Master Scourge’s designation. So it is your choice. Either you place your hand on that table or I place a bolt through your right optic.”

 Natron’s hand shook violently, out of control, as he laid it on the table. He was openly sobbing now.

“These are the rules. If you make a sound, I pull the trigger. No matter how bad it hurts, you just sit there quietly and for once in your life be a mech. You understand?”

Natron nodded, his face contorted like a small youngling’s as tears cascaded down his cheeks. But not a single sound escaped him.

A look of amusement settled on Pointer’s face as he enclosed his fist around the forefinger on Natron’s right hand and pressed his thumb firmly at the digit’s base, halfway between the second and third joint. Amusement turned to a wide grin as he steadily applied more pressure with his thumb and leveraged upwards with the fingertip. His other hand remained firmly gripped on the blaster.

After about five clicks, Natron’s second joint dislocated with a soft _pop_ – almost like the sound of opening a can of oil. Lights dance before his optics and he felt the acid rumble in his tanks and rise into his throat, but he swallowed it back. He didn’t dare make a sound. After about ten clicks, the finger broke mid-shaft under Pointer’s thumb. Natron’s entire frame jolted as pain shot like a searing spike all the way through his shoulder, causing him to bite through his lower lip.

When Pointer let go, Natron’s finger stood straight up at the break like a swollen flagpole. Feeling absurdly proud that he had made no noise and that he was still alive because of it, he cradled his mangled hand in the crook of his left elbow. Then he noticed that the blaster was still aimed squarely at his helm. He lifted bleary optics to Pointer.

“I’m sorry, Natron,” Pointer said, that insane grin still plastered on his face, “but we’re not done yet. The first finger was for screwing up. The second one is because you lied to me. You said you were left-dominant. We have to establish a basis of trust in our relationship. Now, put your hand back on the table.”

The bruised and broken protoform had already swollen to twice its size as energon lines had been ruptured underneath. It was nigh excruciating to move the hand, but the mental agony of going through something like this again was almost more than Natron could bear. Without the gentle support of his other arm, the broken finger wobbled back and forth at the break line, causing the broken strut ends to grind against each other. Hopefully he would pass out, affording the opportunity for Pointer to finish this while he was in stasis, but of course no luck like that was afforded him.

This time though, Pointer made it easy. Grabbing Natron’s little finger even as he rested it on the table, he wrenched it quickly backwards and sideways, nearly severing the small digit at its base. This time, Natron couldn’t stop the howl of agony that broke from his lips, unable to control anything beyond the searing pain shooting up through his shoulder and into his processor. He slid from the chair down onto the filthy floor, his doorwings scrapping painfully against the edges of the chair.

Pointer briefly considered shooting him on principle. A mech this squeamish didn’t deserve to live. And yet – the spark of a glitch had held out longer than he had expected him to. Drawing in a deep vent, he powered his blaster down and subspaced it. He wiped his hands on a cloth, all the time ignoring the writhing, sobbing mech at his pedes.

Finally he turned his attention back to his client. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Natron. Write when you can. I’ll contact you when we need to.”

As deliberately as he had entered, Pointer strolled to the exit, telling the bartender as he passed, “My friend over there will pick up the tab. Be patient with him though, it might take a few moments for him to get the shanix out of his subspace.”

In reply, the bartender nodded politely and studiously avoided optic-contact as he continued polishing an already gleaming cube. Thunder cracked outside as the open door briefly let in the cold gusts of air. The door fell shut and the tavern was plunged back into stifling darkness.

No one at the Rust Bucket Tavern had seen a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is at present unbetad. I am horribly ill and barely managed to push this chapter out today. Thus said, my head is pounding and my brain isn't really thinking straight - and so grammar errors are more likely to sneak in. I will try to review this chapter in the coming weak to weed out any error, but if you do see some, please point them out.
> 
> As to those who have left reviews - thank you so much for your support. Once I'm back at 100% I'll be sure to reply to them. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Blaster felt like dancing around the block holding an engex while booming at the top of his speakers. In the joors since he had signed off the air, calls had come flowing in stronger than the Trannis Fork River. Everybody wanted to schedule an interview with him – and three morning network talkshows had asked for live interviews the next orn, but only _Go’Morning Iacon_ offered to bring him to their Iacon Towers studio via a five star shuttle – all expenses paid. So obviously that was the one he had accepted. And maybe the fact that the other mecha wanted to interview him in his home….He drew a deep vent. Well, as a single creator with a full-time job and young, energetic bitlets – need he say more?

If Blaster was ecstatic – Tailspin looked like he had been dragged through a scraplet den. Whereas Blaster only needed to chat with the mechs that got past Tailspin, he had personally spoken to Every. Single. One. And they had clocked over a thousand calls. His processor felt fried. At exactly 18h00 joors, he had pressed the ‘off-line’ switch, leaving a femme still rambling endlessly, and diverted all calls to The Glitch Line – an automated receiver that billed the mecha calling in. It was to demotivate mechs from calling after hours. What could one say? A glitch was a glitch.

Tailspin laid back in his plush lazy chair and kicked his pedes out. Primus he was so tired. He checked his chronometer. If he knew Blaster – and he did – he didn’t have a lot of time to catch a quick nap. He knew Blaster was riding high on the euphoria of everything that had been happening since Smokescreen called. He also knew that at some point – probably in the middle of the dark cycle – reality would crash into Blaster’s helm and the mech would be an insecure wreck.

And then, as not only a fantastic producer, solid soundboard, and designated hand-holder, but also a loyal friend, he would be there to gather Blaster together and make a star out of him yet again before the red mech’s two-and-a-half breems of live camera time.

Unfortunately, that meant he had to grab every bit of recharge he could muster before he was called upon. He laid his helm back and shuttered his optics, drifting into a refluxless recharge.

A sharp, annoying ring dragged him from the recess of his slumber and he scowled. He checked his chronometer and bit back a nasty curse as he prayed the slagging thing was broken. It had barely been ten breems since he shuttered his optics! The line could go frag itself.

He shuttered his optics, intent on going back into recharge, when a memory struck him. He glared at the line. “I thought I turned you off.” He grumped, then realised that it was Blaster’s private line. He drew a deep vent as he eyed it warily. It was rare to get a call on that line. By the sixth ring he knew that Blaster had no intention of answering the fragging thing. He cursed as he sat up, pressing the ‘accept’ option with more force than necessary.

“Glitch.” He said by way of greeting. It was the normal way to greet, but this time when he said it, he more than meant it.

The tenor voice on the other end of the line was at once cordial and efficient. “Ms Greenlight calling vir Mr Blaster.”

 _Oh slag!_ Tailspin’s pedes hit the floor with a clang as he sat bolt upright. “One moment please.” He swallowed. Greenlight was the president of Omega Broadcasting. Headqaurtered in Kalis, Omega was the company that syndicated their show and allocated their paychips. Whether the femme’s presence on the line was good or bad news, he had no way of telling. But if there was one thing Tailspin was sure of, it was that he had to find Blaster _now._

As expected, Tailspin found Blaster at the energon dispenser, accepting kudos from staff members that usually all but ignored the brash mech.

::Blaster, you’ve got a call from Ms Greenlight. You better take it now.:: Tailspin commed and watched Blaster’s face fall. He knew the mech would automatically assume the worse. After all, he had only spoken with Greenlight twice – once when he signed the syndication contract and the second time when a caller had pushed him a bit too hard and his language had exceeded the CBC’s standard by a substantial margin. That last call had been more than five vorns prior, but Blaster had never stepped over the line since then. He had at the same time kept all communication with the femme to the paltry and meaningless festive greeting cards.

Less than a breem later Blaster was on the line. “Hi, this is Blaster.” There was none of his usual sassiness in his tone – he was all business. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He sent up a small prayer that he hadn’t compromised his position at the company.

Tailspin bit the tips of his claws as he sat wide-opticed on the worn sofa across the tiny office from Blaster’s desk. He watched every move Blaster made.

“Good orn, Blaster. This is Greenlight.” Her tone was friendly, but with her usual brusqueness. “How have you been?”

“Uh, really quite well. Actually, the show seems to be doing very well.”

“Indeed it has,” Greenlight agreed, “In fact, I had the rare opportunity to listen to you earlier. Please don’t take offence, but with my job, I really don’t get the opportunity very often.”

“Course I understand.” Blaster shot Tailspin a nervous look, bringing the mech to the edge of the cushion. This was going somewhere.

“This business with the youngling who killed the guard; tell me what you think about it.”

Ok wow. This femme wasn’t wasting any time getting to the point. Blaster’s shoulders tensed as he took a click to sort his thoughts, thankful the studio room was soundproofed. “I think it’s great radio.” He answered neutrally.

“That’s not what I meant. What do you think about the situation.”

Blaster cleared his vocaliser. His first instinct was to go on the defensive, but after a brief inner struggle he decided to wait and see what purpose Greenlight’s call had. He also briefly weighed the pro’s and con’s and decided that being honest and straightforward was the best way around this – especially as Greenlight wasn’t mincing her words either. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Why do you think that? There are numerous mechs out there who do not agree with you.”

A hint of irritation flared in Blaster but he quickly doused it. “In all honesty those mechs haven’t been calling my station.”

Tailspin cocked an optic ridge and tilted his helm, but Blaster ignored him.

“Trust me on this, Blaster. There are mechs, and then there are _mechs._ The kind that wear decals don’t agree with you. Now please, tell me why you believe the young mech.”

Blaster wiped a hand over his face. How the frag did one tell the president of an eight-hundred billion shanix corporation that you just ‘know’ – that your intuition tells you the kid is telling the truth.

“That’s quite a difficult thing to answer, Greenlight.” He eventually settled on.

“Take your time.” Was her only reply.

Blaster rolled his optics. Great. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. He drew a deep vent. A youngling would tell it like it is, and being a creator, well, he had to give his honest opinion so if his boss scoffed at it – so be it.

“Ok, well this is gonna be real unscientific, but I just _know._ I got younglings of my own, and I know when they ain’t spitting the truth. Smokescreen telling the story was just too…I don’t know. _Real_.”

Greenlight was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Finally she said “So if we accept his story as true, what does that mean in the grand scheme of things?”

“It means that there are a whole bunch of enforcers looking to take down a kid who is scared out of his processor of authorities. Ain’t saying he didn’t kill that mech, but he had reason to defend himself. Smokescreen’s not denying that what he did was wrong. I think in the grand scheme of things, it’s figuring out who the real murderer is and who the real victim is. Sometimes you can’t tell that by who’s standing and who’s greying.”

There was a deep vent on the other end of the line. “Very eloquent dialogue.” She said at length. “It confirmed my feelings as well, but it has been such a long time since I have been surrounded by younglings that I wasn’t sure. It was a sensational interview.”

Blaster held his peace as he sensed more was to come. He wasn’t disappointed.

“A Praxian-state enforcer was in my office about half a joor ago to present me with a summons to appear at the Crystal County Courthouse – wherever that is – next orn to argue against an emergency petition filed by one ‘Proteus’, Commonwealth’s Attorney for Southern Praxus. Seems they want to have access to our records. What do you think about that?”

“Honestly, I think that’s slagged up.” Blaster said without hesitation. He had made his views on that clear during his little interlude with the enforcer, and he wasn’t changing his option just because his boss asked him what he thought. “I stated that much earlier on the show.”

“Indeed you did, but Blaster, I need you to understand what the stakes are. First off, our attorneys tell me that your argument is viable only if the government is put in a position to compel us to hand over the records. If we simply agree to do so, then your whole argument with the enforcer is moot. The attorneys also tell me that if we refuse to allow access to the records, we open ourselves up to enormous civil liabilities if this Smokescreen turns out to truly be a murderer and he kills another mech. We’re not even going to discuss publicity here.” Greenlight paused, “So here’s where we stand. On the one hand, we have an obligation to assist the enforcers in their efforts to bring an admitted killer to justice, and on the other hand, we have an ethical obligation to ourselves and our industry to protect that which is ours. You’re the one who talked with the youngling, so I am leaving it up to you to decide what we should do.”

Blaster swallowed, cleared his vocaliser, and then swallowed again. This was slagging unfair! He wasn’t the executive of a billion-shanix corporation. He wasn’t being paid for the risk. So why the frag should he take ownership now?! The protests flashed through his processor, but as quickly as they came so the counter-arguments arose.

Blaster had, through his absolute glee in defending the high-ground against that enforcer Sideburn, pushed Greenlight into a crack and left her with no wiggle-room. And to top that off he had done it in front of millions of viewers. Slag, if one of Blaster’s staff had done that to him he’d be furious. He cleared his vocaliser again, his respect for his great-boss skyrocketing.

“Ok.” He said eventually, but made sure to modulate his voice to sound nothing but respectful, “but  before I answer, I think we are forgetting one very important thing. This is bigger than just our rights versus the rights of the community. There’s a frightened little bitlit in the mix. My spark goes out to him. He’s alone and I can’t do a slagging thing to help him at all. I guess…Slag it. The odds are stacked high against him and he’s just one little youngster trying to fight a losing battle. It just doesn’t seem fair to give them access to our records when they already hold all the cards.” There. He said exactly what he thought and it sounded exactly like an irrational, over-protective creator.

Greenlight chuckled, “Well, you’ll forgive me if we don’t present that argument in court tomorrow.” She sobered up. “Alright Blaster, here is what we are going to do tomorrow. I’m going to bet my job and yours and a substantial chunk of this company’s assets on the assumption that young Smokescreen is telling the truth, and that he will not, in fact, embark on a multistate crime spree. We will argue to the court that our records are private, and that we will not share them with anyone.”

Blaster’s jaw fell open and Tailspin stood at the odd display, his fingers twitching. Blaster wet his lips. This was not exactly what he had expected – he didn’t know what he had been expecting, but this was not it. Not able to process anything else, he settled for a humble “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Greenlight vented. “This might be the stupidest decision I’ve ever made as a CEO.”

“Well, it’s one of the bravest.” The words just slipped out, but they came directly from Blaster’s spark.

This time it was Greenlight who was caught off-guard. “Why, thank you. We executives don’t always get to hear that. But listen, you did a good job this orn. I appreciate it. I hope you recharge better than I will.” She terminated the line, leaving Blaster staring at the far side of the wall.

Tailspin couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed Blaster’s wrist. “Well!?”

A huge smile slowly blossomed over Blaster’s lips. “She said we did a slagging good job.”

 

 ***

Jazz tapped his pede as he tried to control his frame-language. He was currently seated in an old, worn-out chair in the superintendent of the YDC’s office, listening to the mech ranting and raving about ‘lying little murderers’.

“Supervisor Scuttle was an upstanding mech of the community! He was one of my best mechs! That little murderer was trying to mar his good designation! Every word that Smokescreen said was nothing but a sick, contorted lie! I won’t allow you to come here and defame – ”

Jazz cut him short with a quick gesture of his hand. “We ain’t defaming anymech, Superintendent, but we’ve got some questions that need answering.”

“Then you should know that your questions are severely offensive and that I won’t simply sit here while you throw around accusing questions!” The large mech retorted, his bulky frame creaking as he squared his broad shoulders.

Jazz had learned a long time ago not to judge a pad by its cover, but he couldn’t muster any respect for this bureaucrat that, in his humble opinion, should have retired centivorns ago.

“Superintendent Locksmith,” Jazz stated in measured tones, “as much as I would love to sit here all orn and listen o your rantings, we’ve got a job to do. So, you can either take offence or answer my questions in the spirit in which I offered ‘em, I really don’t care. Either way we need to resolve this case and you ain’t helping, unless you got something to hide?” he couldn’t resist throwing in that last remark. Locksmith was simply too easy to piss off and Jazz had this unholy knack for pressing the wrong buttons – and enjoy doing it.

“What!?” The bulky mech rose from his chair, using his arms to carry at least half his heavy weight. “How dare you imply that I’m somehow – “

Jazz threw up both hands, instantly regretting that he had succeeded in goading the mech further off topic….even if it had been worth the small satisfaction. “Ok, sorry mech, that last part had been uncalled for. It has been a long orn.”

Superintendent Locksmith scowled at him from under thick optical ridges. He studied Jazz, gauging the mech’s sincerity.

Thankfully, Jazz was a master at hiding his true thoughts, and after a few clicks, Locksmith needed, plopping back into his abused seat.

“Fine. It’s been a long orn and I guess you guys have to get to the bottom of this.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “This entire thing has been fragged up from the beginning. That youngling killed a fine supervisor, and I’m left picking up the pieces. Certainly going to miss him.”

Jazz leaned back in his chair, helm cocked to the side. “Ya’ know, that’s quite a different sentiment from the one we’ve been given.”

“Of course!” Locksmith frowned. “After the lies told this morning over the radio, I don’t wonder that you feel that way. I mean, he’s a kid anyway.”

Jazz forced himself to remain still, sensing another game being played. His hidden optics searched the room. No doubt the superintendent was trying to control damage – after all, his helm was on the line as well. After recent events, no doubt an audit would be held. That and the press would be clamouring for details on how the residents were being handled. And Jazz already knew something about that….

“Why was Smokescreen placed in the Crisis Unit?”

“Ah, well, you see,” Locksmith shook his helm, his fat lips curved down in an exaggerated frown. “We really don’t know, and at this point can only draw up some conjectures, seeing as Mr Smokescreen killed Supervisor Scuttle before he could write anything down.” He shrugged. “Our best guess would be that there was a behavioural issue.”

“I see.” Jazz quipped, “and what would the other residents say about that behavioural issue?”

Locksmith chuckled as he shook his helm, his optic ridges arched high and a half-smile tilting his lips. “The other residents…”

Jazz balled his fists. The slagger was actually patronizing him!

“Sergeant Jazz,” His tone matched that of a creator teaching a youngling, and it grated on Jazz, “in these kind of facilities we use numerous euphemisms to make ourselves feel better about the true reality faced inside these walls. We know what this place truly is – a prison. Our residents are really inmates, our supervisors are guards, our housing units really are cell blocks. We – you and I – we know the system and how it works and that why we try to make ourselves feel better by using nice little words that will somehow convince us that this is a nice little sleepover for some disadvantaged younglings. But you know that even the younglings here aren’t real younglings. Oh no – they’re innocence had been stripped from them long ago. They’re they scum, the rejects of our society, assigned here by our courts because no mecha wants to put up with them. This is the tiny box they get shoved into. Here, _behavioural issues_ aren’t the same as what they are in your perfect youngling centres. Here, it’s a violent, every orn occurrence. I don’t ask our _younglings_ about other _younglings’_ behaviour. Not only would I not believe their answers, because they’ve been trained to lie, but neither would I want to put them in situations from which they might not be able to walk away.

“What’s your point, Superintendent Locksmith?” Jazz barely managed to keep the bite from his words. Primus these mechs were all the same.

“My point is that you can’t believe their words, and that solicitating their input is an act of futility.”

Jazz shook his helm in disbelief. “So, what you’re basically telling me is that, right or wrong, your staff are always right.”

Locksmith canted his helm, thinking the question over. “In a word, yes.”

“What the frag?” Jazz sat straight in his chair. “You’re telling me that your staff can do whatever they want and get away with it as long as they hide it well enough!” This was ridiculous!

“Don’t lecture me, sergeant!” Locksmith slammed a fist down on the desk. “You don’t know half of what goes on here! Take that visor off and see what’s going on! The entire system is corrupt! We pretend there’s hope for these youngling, but were simply doing damage control! We use nice phrases to try and lighten it up and to give good-standing citizens some soothing rest, but once a criminal always a criminal! These younglings – they’re nothing more than wild predacons, and we are the keepers! So do I think the residents here lie? Yes! Because they do! Do I trust my staff? Yes, because I have to! In a place like this, it’s the only reality there is!”

Jazz glared at him for the longest time, vying against professionalism and personal opinion. He didn’t even try to hide his disgust at the mech. He knew about how these younglings were – Pit, he had been one of them so this mech didn’t know the other half of what staff were capable of doing! And as to hope – it had been his superintendent that had asked him to consider joining the enforcers. It had been that mech’s hope _in him_ that had shifted his gears. This mech…this mech had no place being the head of the Praxian Crystal County YDC. He wasn’t even giving a pretence of hope to these younglings. He was simply collecting his pay at the end of every quartex. His grip tightened on the datapad. _Not here mech, not here._ He swallowed and looked down at his datapad. “I was under the impression it was standard procedure to issue a blanket to younglings of a certain age going into the Crisis Unit?”

Locksmith’s shoulders sagged and he looked utterly relieved to return to factual statements. “Yes, it is but only on certain occasions.”

“What’s the purpose?” Jazz tapped his stylus against the edge of the pad as he crossed his legs.

Locksmith steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “The CU, as you should know, is used to reprimand bad behaviour. According to the ‘grade’ of that behaviour, certain things might be withheld. In this case, we can only presume his behaviour was of such a grade that it didn’t merit him having even that basic right. You see – these younglings need to learn to respect the system. When they come here they are stripped of everything. They have no rights. As they function here and behave, they receive certain rights which aid in restoring that dignity. Rewards for good behaviour, as you might say. It is earned, not given, and becomes a certain status symbol. When they misbehave, the basic elements of dignity become vulnerable – and thus, we sometimes strip them of rights to remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour.”

Jazz nodded curtly, then switched on his datapad. He’d picked up something in Smokescreen’s case file that had his energon boiling, and now was the right time to ask about it. “So, your records state that on the first orn Smokescreen was here, he had been raped by residents in his housing block. Was that part of your dignity’ depravation program?”

“Why you…” Anger seared behind red-flecked optics as the superintend stood. “Think what you want, sergeant! But I have never once condoned an act of violence on these premises!” he hissed through clenched denta as he pointed a finger menacingly at Jazz.

Jazz stood as well, his lips pulled up in a snarl. “Yeah, mech, I’m touched. But neither have you done anything to stop it!”

“I merrily live in the real world, sergeant. I change what I can!”

“Mech, you don’t even have hope for these kids, so don’t tell me you change what you can! We’re done, but don’t think this place won’t be audited!”

“GET OUT!”

“Planning to!” Jazz growled and stalked to the door, yanking it open.

He patched a line through to Barricade as he walked the stained halls.

::Barricade, get someone here to investigate this place.::

Prowl was probably going to kill him for loosing his cool, but Pit, Prowl should be glad he didn’t throttle that pitiful excuse of a mech.

One thing he did learn though – Smokescreen’s story was looking more true by click.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My word - I can't believe the last time I updated this was July 2018!?!?! Where did the time go!? So sorry to have kept those reading this so long!
> 
> In my haste to get this chapter out, I haven't reread it, so any mistakes are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> Time Guide for clarity:  
> Click - second  
> Breem - minute  
> Joor - hour  
> Orn - day  
> Decaorn - week  
> Quartex - month  
> Vorn - year  
> 60 clicks = 1 breem. 60 breems = 1 joor. 38 joors = 1 orn. 10 orns = 1 decaorn. 4 decaorns = 1 quartex. 13 quartexes = 1 vorn.
> 
> Youngling stages:  
> Sparkling: baby equivalent of 0 - 3 human years  
> 1st Upgrade: 3 - 10 human years  
> 2nd upgrade: 11 - 15 human years  
> 3rd upgrade: 15 - 21 years  
> Adult upgrades: >21 years.
> 
> Lastly, this story idea is based on a book I read as a child, but with my own flare to it. :)


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